University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 
INNIS  BROMFIELD 


COMIC   TRAGEDIES 


JO    AND    MEG. 

COPIES    OF   EARLY    DAGUERREOTYPES. 

"  It  was  at  this  period  of  her  life  that  she  was  violently  attacked  by  a 
mania  for  the  stage,  and  writing  and  enacting  dramas.     Her  older  sister, 
Anna,  had  the  same  taste,  and  assisted  her  in  carrying  out  all  her  plans." 
Mrs.  Cheney's  Life  of  Louisa  M.  Alcott 


COMIC  TRAGEDIES 


WRITTEN   BY  "JO"   AND   "MEG 


AND  ACTED  BY 


THE  "LITTLE  WOMEN" 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 
1920 


Copyright,  189S, 
BY  ANNA  B.  PRATT. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

A  FOREWORD,  BY  MEG «* ;'  •  7 

NORNA;  OR,  THE  WITCH'S  CURSE    .    .    .    *    ,  17 
THE  CAPTIVE  OF  CASTILE;  OR,  THE  MOORISH 

MAIDEN'S  Vow .    .    .    .    .,   ,    .    ....  97 

THE  GREEK  SLAVE 149 

ION 211 

BIANCA:  AN  OPERATIC  TRAGEDY.     .    .    .    *V«  261 

THE  UNLOVED  WIFE;  OR,  WOMAN'S  FAITH  .    .  279 


A  FOREWORD   BY   MEG. 

IN  the  good  old  times,  when  "  Little  Women  " 
worked  and  played  together,  the  big  garret 
was  the  scene  of  many  dramatic  revels.  After 
a  long  day  of  teaching,  sewing,  and  "helping 
mother,"  the  greatest  delight  of  the  girls  was 
to  transform  themselves  into  queens,  knights, 
and  cavaliers  of  high  degree,  and  ascend  into  a 
world  of  fancy  and  romance.  Cinderella's  god- 
mother waved  her  wand,  and  the  dismal  room 
became  a  fairy-land.  Flowers  bloomed,  forests 
arose,  music  sounded,  and  lovers  exchanged 
their  vows  by  moonlight.  Nothing  was  too 
ambitious  to  attempt ;  armor,  gondolas,  harps, 
towers,  and  palaces  grew  as  if  by  magic,  and 
wonderful  scenes  of  valor  and  devotion  were 
enacted  before  admiring  audiences. 

Jo,  of  course,  played  the  villains,  ghosts, 
bandits,  and  disdainful  queens ;  for  her  tragedy- 
loving  soul  delighted  in  the  lurid  parts,  and  no 
drama  was  perfect  in  her  eyes  without  a  touch 
of  the  demonic  or  supernatural.  Meg  loved  the 
sentimental  r61es,  the  tender  maiden  with  the 


S  A  FOREWORD  BY  MEG. 

airy  robes  and  flowing  locks,  who  made  impos- 
sible sacrifices  for  ideal  lovers,  or  the  cavalier, 
singing  soft  serenades  and  performing  lofty  acts 
of  gallantry  and  prowess.  Amy  was  the  fairy 
sprite,  while  Beth  enacted  the  page  or  messen- 
ger when  the  scene  required  their  aid. 

But  the  most  surprising  part  of  the  perform- 
ance was  the  length  of  the  cast  and  the  size 
of  the  company ;  for  Jo  and  Meg  usually  acted 
the  whole  play,  each  often  assuming  five  or  six 
characters,  and  with  rapid  change  of  dress  be- 
coming, in  one  scene,  a  witch,  a  soldier,  a  beau- 
teous lady,  and  a  haughty  noble.  This  peculiar 
arrangement  accounts  for  many  queer  devices, 
and  the  somewhat  singular  fact  that  each  scene 
offers  but  two  actors,  who  vanish  and  reappear 
at  most  inopportune  moments,  and  in  a  great 
variety  of  costume.  Long  speeches  were  intro- 
duced to  allow  a  ruffian  to  become  a  priest,  or 
a  lovely  damsel  to  disguise  herself  in  the  garb 
of  a  sorceress ;  while  great  skill  was  required  to 
preserve  the  illusion,  and  astonish  the  audience 
by  these  wonderful  transformations. 

The  young  amateur  of  to-day,  who  can  easily 
call  to  her  aid  all  the  arts  of  the  costumer 
and  scene-maker,  will  find  it  hard  to  understand 
the  difficulties  of  this  little  company ;  for  not 


A   FOREWORD  BY  MEG.  9 

only  did  they  compose  their  plays,  but  they 
were  also  their  own  carpenters,  scene-painters, 
property-men,  dress-makers,  and  managers.  In 
place  of  a  well-appointed  stage.,  with  the  bril- 
liant lights  and  inspiring  accessories  of  a  mimic 
theatre,  the  "Little  Women"  had  a  gloomy 
garret  or  empty  barn,  and  were  obliged  to 
exercise  all  their  ingenuity  to  present  the  scenes 
of  their  ambitious  dramas. 

But  it  is  surprising  what  fine  effects  can  be 
produced  with  old  sheets,  bright  draperies,  and 
a  judicious  arrangement  of  lights,  garlands,  and 
picturesque  properties ;  and  Jo's  dramatic  taste 
made  her  an  admirable  stage-manager.  Meg 
w»as  especially  handy  with  saw  and  hammer,  and 
acted  as  stage-carpenter,  —  building  balconies, 
thrones,  boats,  and  towers  after  peculiar  de- 
signs of  her  own.  Bureaus,  tables,  and  chairs, 
piled  aloft  and  arched  with  dark  shawls,  made 
dungeon  walls  and  witch's  cave,  or  formed  a 
background  for  haunted  forest  and  lonely  glen. 
Screens  of  white  cloth  furnished  canvas  on 
which  little  Amy's  skilful  hand  depicted  palace 
halls,  or  romantic  scene  for  lovers'  tryst ;  and 
Beth's  deft  fingers  were  most  apt  in  con- 
structing properties  for  stage  adornment,  and 
transforming  the  frailest  material  into  dazzling 


10  A   FOREWORD  BY  MEG. 

raiment.  For  the  costumes  were  a  serious  con- 
sideration. No  money  could  be  spared  from  the 
slender  purse  to  supply  the  wardrobes  of  these 
aspiring  actors,  and  many  were  the  devices  to 
clothe  the  little  company. 

Thus  a  robe  in  one  scene  became  a  cloak 
in  the  next,  and  the  drapery  of  a  couch  in  the 
third ;  while  a  bit  of  lace  served  as  mantle,  veil, 
or  turban,  as  best  suited  the  turn  of  the  play. 
Hats  covered  with  old  velvet,  and  adorned  with 
feathers  plucked  from  the  duster,  made  most 
effective  headgear  for  gay  cavalier  or  tragic 
villain.  From  colored  cotton  were  manufac- 
tured fine  Greek  tunics  and  flowing  trains ;  and 
remarkable  court  costumes  were  evolved  from 
an  old  sofa-covering,  which  had  seen  better  days, 
and  boasted  a  little  gold  thread  and  embroidery. 

Stars  of  tin,  sewed  upon  dark  cambric,  made 
a  suit  of  shining  armor.  Sandals  were  cut  from 
old  boots.  Strips  of  wood  and  silver  paper  were 
fashioned  into  daggers,  swords,  and  spears, 
while  from  cardboard  were  created  helmets, 
harps,  guitars,  and  antique  lamps,  that  were 
considered  masterpieces  of  stage  art. 

Everything  available  was  pressed  into  service  : 
colored  paper,  odds  and  ends  of  ribbon,  even 
tin  cans  and  their  bright  wrappings  were  treas- 


A   FOREWORD  BY  MEG.  11 

ures  to  the  young  actors,  and  all  reappeared  as 
splendid  properties. 

At  first  a  store  of  red  curtains,  some  faded 
brocades,  and  ancient  shawls  comprised  the 
stage  wardrobe ;  but  as  the  fame  of  the  perform- 
ances spread  abroad,  contributions  were  made 
to  the  little  stock,  and  the  girls  became  the 
proud  possessors  of  a  velvet  robe,  a  plumed  hat 
adorned  with  silver,  long  yellow  boots,  and  a 
quantity  of  mock  pearls  and  tinsel  ornaments. 

Such  wealth  determined  them  to  write  a  play 
which  should  surpass  all  former  efforts,  give  Jo 
a  chance  to  stalk  haughtily  upon  the  stage  in 
the  magnificent  boots,  and  Meg  to  appear  in 
gorgeous  train  and  diadem  of  jewels. 

"  The  Witch's  Curse  "  was  the  result,  and  it 
was  produced  with  astounding  effect,  quite  par- 
alyzing the  audience  by  its  splendid  gloom. 
Jo  called  it  the  "lurid  drama,"  and  always 
considered  it  her  masterpiece.  But  it  cost 
hours  of  thought  and  labor ;  for  to  construct  a 
dungeon,  a  haunted  chamber,  a  cavern,  and  a 
lonely  forest  taxed  to  the  uttermost  the  inge- 
nuity of  the  actors.  To  introduce  into  one  short 
scene  a  bandit,  two  cavaliers,  a  witch,  and  a 
fairy  spirit  —  all  enacted  by  two  people  —  re- 
quired some  skill,  and  lightning  change  of 


12  A   FOREWORD  BY  MEG. 

costume.  To  call  up  the  ghostly  visions  and 
mysterious  voices  which  should  appall  the  guilty 
Count  Rodolpho,  was  a  task  of  no  small  difficulty. 
But  inspired  by  the  desire  to  outshine  them- 
selves, the  children  accomplished  a  play  full 
of  revenge,  jealousy,  murder,  and  sorcery,  of 
all  which  indeed  they  knew  nothing  hut  the 
name. 

Hitherto  their  dramas  had  been  of  the  most 
sentimental  description,  given  to  the  portrayal 
of  woman's  devotion,  filial  affection,  heroism, 
and  self-sacrifice.  Indeed,  these  "  Comic  Trage- 
dies "  with  their  highflown  romance  and  fantastic 
ideas  of  love  and  honor,  are  most  characteristic 
of  the  young  girls  whose  lives  were  singularly 
free  from  the  experiences  of  many  maidens  of 
their  age. 

Of  the  world  they  knew  nothing  ;  lovers 
were  ideal  beings,  clothed  with  all  the  beauty 
of  their  innocent  imaginations.  Love  was  a 
blissful  dream ;  constancy,  truth,  courage,  and 
virtue  quite  every-day  affairs  of  life.  Their  few 
novels  furnished  the  romantic  element  ;  the 
favorite  fairy-tales  gave  them  material  for  the 
supernatural ;  and  their  strong  dramatic  taste 
enabled  them  to  infuse  both  fire  and  pathos  into 
their  absurd  sftuations. 


A   FOREWORD  BY  MEG.  13 

Jo  revelled  in  catastrophe,  and  the  darker 
scenes  were  her  delight ;  but  she  usually  re- 
quired Meg  to  "do  the  love-part,''  which  she 
considered  quite  beneath  her  pen.  Thus  their 
productions  were  a  queer  mixture  of  sentiment 
and  adventure,  with  entire  disregard  of  such 
matters  as  grammar,  history,  and  geography, — 
all  of  which  were  deemed  of  no  importance  by 
these  aspiring  dramatists. 

From  the  little  stage  library,  still  extant,  the 
following  plays  have  been  selected  as  fair  exam- 
ples of  the  work  of  these  children  of  sixteen 
and  seventeen.  With  some  slight  changes  and 
omissions,  they  remain  as  written  more  than 
forty  years  ago  by  Meg  and  Jo,  so  dear  to  the 
hearts  of  many  other  "  Little  Women.'' 

CONCORD,  MASS.,  1893. 


NORNA;  OE,  THE  WITCH'S  CURSE. 


CHARACTERS. 

COUNT  RODOLPHO  .     .     .  A  Haughty  Noble. 

COUNT  Louis     ....  Lover  of  Leonore. 

ADRIAN The  Black  Mask. 

HUGO A  Bandit. 

GASPARD Captain  of  the  Guard. 

ANGELO A  Page. 

THERESA Wife  to  Rodolpho. 

LEONORE  ......  In  love  with  Louis. 

NORNA  .          •     .  A   Witch. 


COMIC    TRAGEDIES. 


NORNA;    OR,   THE  WITCH'S   CURSE, 

SCENE   FIRST. 

[A  room  in  the  castle  of  RODOLPHO.      , 
THERESA  discovered  alone^  and  in  tears.] 

THERESA.  I  cannot  pray ;  my  aching 
heart  finds  rest  alone  in  tears.  Ah,  what 
a  wretched  fate  is  mine !  Forced  by  a 
father's  will  to  wed  a  stranger  ere  I  learned 
to  love,  one  short  year  hath  taught  me 
what  a  bitter  thing  it  is  to  wear  a  chain 
that  binds  me  unto  one  who  hath  proved 
himself  both  jealous  and  unkind.  The 
fair  hopes  I  once  cherished  are  now  gone, 
and  here  a  captive  in  my  splendid  home 
I  dwell  forsaken,  sorrowing  and  alone 
[weeps].  [Three  taps  upon  the  wall  are 
heard.~\  Ha,  my  brother's  signal !  What 


18  NORN  A ; 

can  bring  him  hither  at  this  hour  ?     Louis, 
isitthou?     Enter;  "  all 's  well." 

\Enter  COUNT  Louis  through  a  secret  panel 
in  the  wall,  hidden  by  a  curtain.  He  em- 
braces THERESA. 

THERESA.  Ah,  Louis,  what  hath  chanced  ? 
Why  art  thou  here  ?  Some  danger  must 
have  brought  thee ;  tell  me,  dear  brother. 
Let  me  serve  thee. 

Louis.  Sister  dearest,  thy  kindly  of- 
fered aid  is  useless  now.  Thou  canst  not 
help  me;  and  I  must  add  another  sorrow 
to  the  many  that  are  thine.  I  came  to 
say  farewell,  Theresa. 

THERESA.  Farewell !  Oh,  brother,  do 
not  leave  me !  Thy  love  is  all  now  left  to 
cheer  my  lonely  life.  Wherefore  must 
thou  go  ?  Tell  me,  I  beseech  thee ! 

Louis.  Forgive  me  if  I  grieve  thee. 
I  will  tell  thee  all.  Thy  husband  hates 
me,  for  I  charged  him  with  neglect  and 
cruelty  to  thee;  and  he  hath  vowed  re- 
venge for  my  bold  words.  He  hath  whis- 


OR,    THE    WITCH'S   CURSE.  19 

pered  false  tales  to  the  king,  be  hath 
blighted  all  my  hopes  of  rank  and  honor. 
I  am  banished  from  the  land,  and  must 
leave  thee  and  Leonore,  and  wander  forth 
an  outcast  and  alone.  But  —  let  him  be- 
ware !  —  I  shall  return  to  take  a  deep 
revenge  for  thy  wrongs  and  my  own. 
Nay,  sister,  grieve  not  thus.  I  have 
sworn  to  free  thee  from  his  power,  and  I 
will  keep  my  vow.  Hope  on  and  bear  a  little 
longer,  dear  Theresa,  and  ere  long  I  will 
bear  thee  to  a  happy  home  [noise  is  heard 
ivithouf].  Ha !  what  is  that  ?  Who  comes  ? 

THERESA.  'T  is  my  lord  returning  from 
the  court.  Fly,  Louis,  fly  !  Thou  art 
lost  if  he  discover  thee.  Heaven  bless 
and  watch  above  thee.  Remember  poor 
Theresa,  and  farewell. 

Louis.  One  last  word  of  Leonore.  I 
have  never  told  my  love,  yet  she  hath 
smiled  on  me,  and  I  should  have  won  her 
hand.  Ah,  tell  her  this,  and  bid  her  to  be 
true  to  him  who  in  his  exile  will  hope  on, 
and  vet  return  to  claim  the  heart  be  hath 


20  NORN  A  i 

loved    so  faithfully.     Farewell,  my  sister. 
Despair  not,  —  I  shall  return. 

[Exit  Louis  through  the  secret  panel ;  drops  his 
dagger. 

THERESA.  Thank  Heaven,  he  is  safe  !  — 
but  oh,  my  husband,  this  last  deed  of  thine 
is  hard  to  bear.  Poor  Louis,  parted  from 
Leonore,  his  fair  hopes  blighted,  all  by  thy 
cruel  hand.  Ah,  he  comes  !  I  must  be 
calm. 

[Enter   RODOLPHO. 

ROD.  What,  weeping  still  ?  Hast  thou 
no  welcome  for  thy  lord  save  tears  and 
sighs  ?  I  '11  send  thee  to  a  convent  if  thou 
art  not  more  gay !  . 

THERESA.  I  '11  gladly  go,  my  lord.  I 
am  weary  of  the  world.  Its  gay e ties  but 
make  my  heart  more  sad. 

ROD.  Nay,  then  I  will  take  thee  to 
the  court,  and  there  thou  must  be  gay. 
But  I  am  weary;  bring  me  wine,  and 
smile  upon  me  as  thou  used  to  do.  Dost 
hear  me  ?  Weep  no  more.  [Seats  himself. 


OR,   THE   WITCHES  CURSE.  21 

THERESA  brings  wine  and  stands  beside  him. 
Suddenly  he  sees  the  dagger  dropped  ly  Louis.] 
Ha !  what  is  that  ?  'T  is  none  of  mine. 
How  came  it  hither  ?  Answer,  I  com- 
mand thee ! 

THERESA.  I  cannot.  I  must  not,  dare 
not  tell  thee. 

ROD.  Barest  thou  refuse  to  answer? 
Speak !  Who  hath  dared  to  venture 
hither?  Is  it  thy  brother?  As  thou 
lovest  life,  I  bid  thee  speak. 

THERESA.  I  am  innocent,  and  will  not 
betray  the  only  one  now  left  me  on  the 
earth  to  love.  Oh,  pardon  me,  my  lord ; 
I  will  obey  in  all  but  this. 

ROD.  Thou  shaft  obey.  I'll  take  thy 
life  but  I  will  know.  Thy  brother  must 
be  near,  —  this  dagger  was  not  here  an 
hour  ago.  Thy  terror  hath  betrayed  him. 
I  leave  thee  now  to  bid  them  search  the 
castle.  But  if  I  find  him  not,  I  shall 
return ;  and  if  thou  wilt  not  then  confess, 
I  '11  find  a  way  to  make  thee.  Remember, 
I  have  vowed,  —  thy  secret  or  thy  life  ! 

[Exit  RODOLPHO 


22  NORN  A  ; 

THERESA.  My  life  I  freely  yield  thee, 
but  my  secret  —  never.  Oh,  Louis,  I  will 
gladly  die  to  save  thee.  Life  hath  no 
joy  for  me ;  and  in  the  grave  this  poor 
heart  may  forget  the  bitter  sorrows  it  is 
burdened  with  [sinks  down  weeping]. 

[Enter  RODOLPHO. 

ROD.  The  search  is  vain.  He  hath 
escaped.  Theresa,  rise,  and  answer  me. 
To  whom  belonged  the  dagger  I  have 
found  ?  Thy  tears  avail  not ;  I  will  be 
obeyed.  Kneel  not  to  me,  I  will  not 
pardon.  Answer,  or  I  swear  I  '11  make 
thee  dumb  forever. 

THERESA.  No,  no !  I  will  not  betray. 
Oh,  husband,  spare  me !  Let  not  the 
hand  that  led  me  to  the  altar  be  stained 
with  blood  I  would  so  gladly  shed  for  thee. 
I  cannot  answer  thee. 

ROD.  [striking  her"].  Then  die  :  thy  con- 
stancy is  useless.  I  will  find  thy  brother 
and  take  a  fearful  vengeance  yet. 

THERESA.  I  am  faithful  to  the  last. 
Husband,  I  forgive  thee. 

[THERESA  dies 


OR,    THE    WITCH'S   CURSE.  23 

ROD.  Tis  done,  and  I  am  rid  of  her 
forever;  but  'tis  an  ugly  deed.  Poor 
fool,  there  was  a  time  when  I  could  pity 
thee,  but  thou  hast  stood  'twixt  me  and 
Lady  Leonore,  and  now  I  am  free.  I  must 
conceal  the  form,  and  none  shall  ever 
know  the  crime. 

[Exit  RODOLPHO. 

[The  panel  opens  and  NORN  A  enters.] 

NORNA.  Heaven  shield  us !  What  is* this  ? 
His  cruel  hand  hath  done  the  deed,  and  I 
am  powerless  to  save.  Poor,  murdered 
lady,  I  had  hoped  to  spare  thee  this,  and 
lead  thee  to  a  happier  home.  Perchance, 
't  is  better  so.  The  dead  find  rest,  and  thy 
sad  heart  can  ache  no  more.  Rest  to  thy 
soul,  sweet  lady.  But  for  thee,  thou  cruel 
villain,  I  have  in  store  a  deep  revenge  for 
all  thy  sinful  deeds.  If  there  be  power  in 
spell  or  charm,  I'll  conjure  fearful  dreams 
upon  thy  head.  I  '11  follow  thee  wherever 
thou  mayst  go,  and  haunt  thy  sleep  with 
evil  visions.  I  '11  whisper  strange  words 


24  NORN  A) 

that  shall  appall  thee  ;  dark  phantoms  shall 
rise  up  before  thee,  and  wild  voices  ring- 
ing in  thine  ear  shall  tell  thee  of  thy  sins. 
By  all  these  will  I  make  life  like  a  hideous 
dream,  and  death  more  fearful  still.  Like 
a  vengeful  ghost  I  will  haunt  thee  to  thy 
grave,  and  so  revenge  thy  wrongs,  poor, 
murdered  lady.  Beware,  Rodolpho  !  Old 
Norna's  curse  is  on  thee. 

[She  bears  away  THERESA'S  body  through  the 
secret  door,  and  vanishes. 


CURTAIN. 


OR,    THE   WITCH' S  CURSE.  25 


TO  SCENE  SECOND. 

THE  mysterious  cave  was  formed  of  old  furni- 
ture, covered  with  dark  draperies,  an  opening 
being  left  at  the  back  wherein  the  spirits  called 
up  by  Norna  might  appear.  A  kitchen  kettle 
filled  with  steaming  water  made  an  effective 
caldron  over  which  the  sorceress  should  mur- 
mur her  incantations;  flaming  pine-knots  cast  a 
lurid  glare  over  the  scene ;  and  large  boughs, 
artfully  arranged  about  the  stage,  gave  it  the 
appearance  of  a  "  gloomy  wood." 

When  Louis  "retires  within,"  he  at  once 
arrays  himself  in  the  white  robes  of  the  vision, 
and  awaits  the  witch's  call  to  rise  behind  the 
aperture  in  true  dramatic  style.  He  vanishes, 
quickly  resumes  his  own  attire,  while  Norna 
continues  to  weave  her  spells,  till  she  sees  he 
is  ready  to  appear  once  more  as  the  disguised 
Count  Louis. 


26  NORN  A; 


SCENE  SECOND. 

[A  wood.    NORNA'S  cave  among  the  rocks. 
Enter  Louis  masked.} 

Louis.  Yes ;  't  is  the  spot.  How  dark 
and  still !  She  is  not  here.  Ho,  Norna, 
mighty  sorceress  !  I  seek  thy  aid. 

NORNA  [rising  from  the  cave].     I  am  here. 

Louis.  I  seek  thee,  Norna,  to  learn 
tidings  of  one  most  dear  to  me.  Dost 
thou  know  aught  of  Count  Rodolpho's 
wife?  A  strange  tale  hath  reached  me 
that  not  many  nights  ago  she  disappeared, 
and  none  know  whither  she  hath  gone. 
Oh,  tell  me,  is  this  true? 

NORNA.     It  is  most  true. 

Louis.  And  canst  thou  tell  me  whither 
she  hath  gone  ?  I  will  reward  thee  well. 

NORNA.  I  can.  She  lies  within  her 
tomb,  in  the  chapel  of  the  castle. 

Louis.  Dead  !  —  it  cannot  be  !  They 
told  me  she  had  fled  away  with  some 


OR,    THE    WITCH'S  CURSE.  27 

young  lord  who  had  won  her  love.  Was 
it  not  true  ? 

NORNA.  It  is  false  as  the  villain's  heart 
who  framed  the  tale.  /  bore  the  mur- 
dered lady  to  her  tomh,  and  laid  her 
there. 

Louis.  Murdered?  How?  When?  By 
whom  ?  Oh,  tell  me  I  beseech  thee  ! 

NORNA.  Her  husband's  cruel  hand  took 
the  life  he  had  made  a  burden.  I  heard 
him  swear  it  ere  he  dealt  the  blow. 

Louis.  Wherefore  did  he  kill  her? 
Oh,  answer  quickly  or  I  shall  go  mad 
with  grief  and  hate. 

NORNA.  I  can  tell  thee  little.  From 
my  hiding-place  I  heard  her  vow  never  to 
confess  whose  dagger  had  been  found  in 
her  apartment,  and  her  jealous  lord,  in  his 
wild  anger,  murdered  her. 

Louis.  'T  was  mine.  Would  it  had 
been  sheathed  in  mine  own  breast  ere  it 
had  caused  so  dark  a  deed !  Ah,  Theresa, 
why  did  I  leave  thee  to  a  fate  like  this  ? 

NORNA.     Young  man,  grieve  not;  it  is 


28  NORNA  i 

too  late  to  save,  but  there  is  left  to  thee 
a  better  thing  than  grief. 

Louis.     Oh,  what? 

NORNA.     Revenge ! 

Louis.  Thou  art  right.  I  '11  weep  no 
more.  Give  me  thine  aid,  0  mighty  wiz- 
ard, and  I  will  serve  thee  well. 

NORNA.  Who  art  thou?  The  poor 
lady's  lover? 

Louis.  Ah,  no;  far  nearer  and  far 
deeper  was  the  love  I  bore  her,  for  I  am 
her  brother. 

NORNA.  Ha,  that 's  well !  Thou  wilt  join 
me,  for  I  have  made  a  vow  to  rest  not  till 
that  proud,  sinful  lord  hath  well  atoned  for 
this  deep  crime.  Spirits  shall  haunt  him, 
and  the  darkest  phantoms  that  my  art  can 
raise  shall  scare  his  soul.  Wilt  thou  join 
me  in  my  work  ? 

Louis.  I  will,  —  but  stay!  thou  hast 
spoken  of  spirits.  Dread  sorceress,  is  it 
in  thy  power  to  call  them  up  ? 

NORNA.  It  is.  Wilt  see  my  skill. 
Stand  back  while  I  call  up  a  phantom 
which  thou  canst  not  doubt. 


OR,   THE    WITCH'S   CURSE.  29 

[Louis  retires  within  the  cave.     NoRNA  weaves 
a  spell  above  her  caldron. 

NORNA.     O  spirit,  from  thy  quiet  tomb, 
I  bid  thee  hither  through  the  gloom, 
In  winding-sheet,  with  bloody  brow, 
Rise  up  and  hear  our  solemn  vow. 
I  bid  thee,  with  my  magic  power, 
Tell  the  dark  secret  of  that  hour 
When  cruel  hands,  with  blood  and  strife, 
Closed  the  sad  dream  of  thy  young  life. 
Hither  —  appear  before  our  eyes. 
Pale  spirit,  I  command  thee  rise. 

[Spirit  of  THERESA  rises. 
Shadowy  spirit,  I  charge  thee  well, 
By  my  mystic  art's  most  potent  spell, 
To  haunt  throughout  his  sinful  life, 
The  mortal  who  once  called  thee  wife. 
At  midnight  hour  glide  round  his  bed, 
And  lay  thy  pale  hand  on  his  head. 
Whisper  wild  words  in  his  sleeping  ear, 
And  chill  .his  heart  with  a  deadly  fear. 
Rise  at  his  side  in  his  gayest  hour, 
And  his  guilty  soul  shall  feel  thy  power. 
Stand  thou  before  him  in  day  and  night, 
And  cast  o'er  his  life  a  darksome  blight ; 
For  with  all  his  power  and  sin  and  pride, 


*30  NORN  A ; 

He  shall  ne'er  forget  his  murdered  bride. 
Pale,  shadowy  form,  wilt  thou  obey  ? 

[The  spirit  bows  its  head. 
To  thy  ghostly  work  away  —  away  ! 

[The  spirit  vanishes. 
The  spell  is  o'er,  the  vow  is  won, 
And,  sinful  heart,  thy  curse  begun. 

[Re-enter  Louis. 

Louis.  'T  is  enough  !  I  own  thy  power, 
and  by  the  spirit  of  my  murdered  sister  I 
have  looked  upon,  I  swear  to  aid  thee  in 
thy  dark  work. 

NORNA.  T  is  well ;  and  I  will  use  my 
power  to  guard  thee  from  the  danger  that 
surrounds  thee.  And  now,  farewell.  Re- 
member, —  thou  hast  sworn. 

[Exit  Louis. 


CURTAIN. 


OR,   THE    WITCH'S   CURSE.  31 


SCENE  THIRD. 

[Another  part  of  the  wood. 
Enter  RODOLPHO.] 

ROD.  They  told  me  that  old  Norna's 
cave  was  'mong  these  rocks,  and  yet 
I  find  it  not.  By  her  I  hope  to  learn 
where  young  Count  Louis  is  concealed. 
Once  in  my  power,  he  shall  not  escape 
to  whisper  tales  of  evil  deeds  against  me. 
Stay !  some  one  comes.  I  '11  ask  my  way. 

[Enter  Louis  masked. 

Ho,  stand,  good  sir.  Canst  guide  me  to 
the  cell  of  Norna,  the  old  sorceress  ? 

Louis.  It  were  little  use  to  tell  thee ; 
thou  wouldst  only  win  a  deeper  curse  than 
that  she  hath  already  laid  upon  thee. 

ROD.  Hold !  who  art  thou  that  dare  to 
speak  thus  to  Count  Rodolpho  ? 

Louis.  That  thou  canst  never  know; 
but  this  I  tell  thee:  I  am  thy  deadliest 
foe,  and,  aided  by  the  wizard  Norna,  seek 


82  NORN  A  ; 

to  work  thee  evil,  and  bring  down  upon 
thy  head  the  fearful  doom  thy  sin  de- 
serves. Wouldst  thou  know  more,  —  then 
seek  the  witch,  and  learn  the  hate  she 
bears  thee. 

ROD.  Fool!  thinkst  thou  I  fear  thee 
or  thy  enchantments?  Draw,  and  defend 
thyself!  Thou  shalt  pay  dearly  for  thine 
insolence  to  me  !  [Draws  his  sword. 

Louis.  I  will  not  stain  my  weapon 
with  a  murderer's  blood.  I  leave  thee  to 
the  fate  that  gathers  round  thee. 

[Exit  Louis. 

ROD.  "  Murderer,"  said  he.  I  am  be- 
trayed, —  yet  no  one  saw  the  deed.  Yet, 
stay  !  perchance  't  was  he  who  bore  Therese 
away.  He  has  escaped  me,  and  will  spread 
the  tale.  Nay,  why  should  I  fear  ?  Cour- 
age !  One  blow,  and  I  am  safe !  [Rushes 
forward.  Spirit  of  THERESA  rises."]  What 's 
that  ?  —  her  deathlike  face,  —  the  wound 
my  hand  hath  made !  Help  !  help  !  help ! 
[Bushes  out.  The  spirit  vanishes. 

CURTAIN. 


OR,   THE   WITCH'S  CURSE.  83 


SCENE  FOURTH. 

[Room  in  the  castle  of  RODOLPHO. 
RODOLPHO  alone.} 

ROD.  I  see  no  way  save  that.  Were 
young  Count  Louis  dead  she  would  for- 
get the  love  that  had  just  begun,  and  by 
sweet  words  and  gifts  I  may  yet  win 
her.  The  young  lord  must  die  [a  groan 
behind  the  curtain].  Ha!  what  is  that? 
T  is  nothing ;  fie  upon  my  fear !  I  '11 
banish  all  remembrance  of  the  fearful 
shape  my  fancy  conjured  up  within  the 
forest.  I  '11  not  do  the  deed  myself,  — 
I  have  had  enough  of  blood.  Hugo  the 
bandit :  he  is  just  the  man,  —  bold,  sure 
of  hand,  and  secret.  I  will  bribe  him  well, 
and  when  the  deed  is  done,  find  means  to 
rid  me  of  him  lest  he  should  play  me  false. 
I  saw  him  in  the  courtyard  as  I  entered. 
Perchance  he  is  not  yet  gone.  Ho,  with- 
out there !  Bid  Hugo  here  if  he  be  within 


84  NORN  A; 

the  castle.  —  He  is  a  rough  knave,  but  gold 

will  make  all  sure. 

[Enter  HUGO. 

HUGO.     What  would  my  lord  with  me  ? 

ROD.  I  ask  a  favor  of  thee.  Nay, 
never  fear,  I  '11  pay  thee  well.  Wouldst 
earn  a  few  gold  pieces  ? 

HUGO.   Ay,  my  lord,  most  gladly  would  I. 

ROD.  Nay,  sit,  good  Hugo.  Here  is 
wine ;  drink,  and  refresh  thyself. 

HUGO.  Thanks,  my  lord.  How  can  I 
serve  you? 

[RODOLPHO  gives  wine,  HUGO  sits  and  drinks.] 

ROD.  Dost  thou  know  Count  Louis, 
whom  the  king  lately  banished  ? 

HUGO.     Nay,  my  lord;  I  never  saw  him. 

ROD.  [aside].  Ha!  that  is  well.  It 
matters  not;  'tis  not  of  him  I  speak. 
Take  more  wine,  good  Hugo.  Listen, 
there  is  a  certain  lord,  —  one  whom  I 
hate.  I  seek  his  life.  Here  is  gold  — 
thou  hast  a  dagger,  and  can  use  it  well. 
Dost  understand  me  ? 


OR,   THE    WITCH'S   CURSE.  35 

HUGO.  Ay,  my  lord,  most  clearly. 
Name  the  place  and  hour;  count  out  the 
gold,  —  I  and  my  dagger  then  are  thine. 

ROD.  'T  is  well.  Now  harken.  In  the 
forest,  near  old  Norna's  cave,  there  is  a 
quiet  spot.  Do  thou  go  there  to-night  at 
sunset.  Watch  well,  and  when  thou  seest 
a  tall  figure  wrapped  in  a  dark  cloak,  and 
masked,  spring  forth,  and  do  the  deed. 
Then  fling  the  body  down  the  rocks,  or 
hide  it  in  some  secret  place.  Here  is  one 
half  the  gold  ;  more  shall  be  thine  when 
thou  shalt  show  some  token  that  the  deed 
is  done. 

HUGO.  Thanks,  Count ;  1 11  do  thy  bid- 
ding. At  sunset  in  the  forest,  —  I  '11  be 
there,  and  see  he  leaves  it  not  alive. 
Good-even,  then,  my  lord. 

ROD.  Hugo,  use  well  thy  dagger,  and 
gold  awaits  thee.  Yet,  stay !  I  '11  meet 
thee  in  the  wood,  and  pay  thee  there. 
They  might  suspect  if  they  should  see 
thee  here  again  so  soon.  I '!}  meet 

there,  &n4  so 


36  NORNA ; 

HUGO.     Adieu,  my  lord. 

[Exit  HUGO]. 

ROD.  Yes ;  all  goes  well.  My  rival 
dead,  and  Leonore  is  mine.  With  her  I 
may  forget  the  pale  face  that  now  seems 
ever  looking  into  mine.  I  can  almost 
think  the  deep  wound  shows  in  her  picture 
yonder.  But  this  is  folly !  Shame  on 
thee,  Rodolpho.  I  '11  think  of  it  no  more. 
[Turns  to  drink.  THERESA'S  face  appears 
nrithin  the  picture,  the  wound  upon  her  brow."] 
Ha !  what  is  that  ?  Am  I  going  mad  ? 
See  the  eyes  move,  —  it  is  Theresa's  face ! 
Nay,  I  will  not  look  again.  Yes,  yes; 
'tis  there!  Will  this  sad  face  haunt 
me  forever? 

THERESA.     Forever !     Forever ! 

ROD.  Fiends  take  me,  —  't  is  her  voice  ! 
It  is  no  dream.  Ah,  let  me  go  away  — 
away! 

[RODOLPHO  rushes  wildly  out.] 
CURTAIN, 


OR,   THE   WITCHES  CURSE.  87 


NOTE  TO  SCENE  FIFTH. 

THE  apparently  impossible  transformations  of 
this  scene  (when  played  by  two  actors  only) 
may  be  thus  explained:  — 

The  costumes  of  Louis  and  Norna,  being 
merely  loose  garments,  afford  opportunities  for 
rapid  change  ;  and  the  indulgent  audience  over- 
looking such  minor  matters  as  boots  and  wigs, 
it  became  an  easy  matter  for  Jo  to  transform 
herself  into  either  of  the  four  characters  which 
she  assumed  on  this  occasion. 

Beneath  the  flowing  robes  of  the  sorceress 
Jo  was  fully  dressed  as  Count  Rodolpho. 
Laid  conveniently  near  were  the  black  cloak, 
hat,  and  mask  of  Louis,  —  also  the  white  drap- 
eries required  for  the  ghostly  Theresa. 

Thus,  Norna  appears  in  long,  gray  robe,  to 
which  are  attached  the  hood  and  elf-locks  of 
the  witch.  Seeing  Hugo  approach  she  conceals 
herself  among  the  trees,  thus  gaining  time  to 
don  the  costume  of  Louis,  and  appear  to  Hugo 
who  awaits  him. 

Hugo  stabs  and  drags  him  from  the  stage. 
Louis  then  throws  off  his  disguise  and  be- 


38  NORN  A; 

oomes  Rodolpho,  fully  dressed  for  his  entrance 
a  moment  later. 

As  Hugo  does  not  again  appear,  it  is  an  easy 
matter  to  assume  the  character  of  the  spectre 
and  produce  the  sights  and  sounds  which  terrify 
the  guilty  Count;  then  slipping  on  the  witch's 
robe,  be  ready  to  glide  forth  and  close  the  scene 
with  dramatic  effect. 


OR,   THE    WITCH'S  CURSE.  39 


SCENE  FIFTH. 

[The  wood  near  NOBNA'S  cave. 
Enter  NOBNA.] 

NORNA.  It  is  the  hour  I  bid  him  come 
with  the  letter  for  Lady  Leonore.  Poor 
youth,  his  sister  slain,  his  life  in  danger, 
and  the  lady  of  his  love  far  from  him, 
'tis  a  bitter  fate.  But,  if  old  Norna  loses 
not  her  power,  he  shall  yet  win  his  liberty, 
his  love,  and  his  revenge.  Ah,  he  comes, 
—  nay,  't  is  the  ruffian  Hugo.  I  will  con- 
ceal myself,  —  some  evil  is  afoot  [hides 

among  the  trees]. 

[Enter  HUGO. 

HUGO.  This  is  the  spot.  Here  will  I 
hide,  and  bide  my  time  [conceals  himself 

among  the  rocks']. 

[Enter  Louis. 

Louis.  She  is  not  here.  I  '11  wait 
awhile  and  think  of  Leonore.  How  will 


40  NORN  A , 

she  receive  this  letter?  Ah,  could  she 
know  how,  'mid  all  my  grief  and  danger, 
her  dear  face  shines  in  my  heart,  and 
cheers  me  on.  [HUGO  steals  out,  and  as  he 
turns,  stabs  him.~\  Ha,  villain,  thou  hast 
killed  me  !  I  am  dying  !  God  bless  thee, 
Leonore !  Norna,  remember,  vengeance 
on  Rodolpho!  [Falls] 

HUGO.  Nay,  nay,  thou  wilt  take  no 
revenge ;  thy  days  are  ended,  thanks  to 
this  good  steel.  Now,  for  the  token  [takes 
letter  from  Louis's  hand~\.  Ah,  this  he  can- 
not doubt.  I  will  take  this  ring  too;  'tis 
a  costly  one.  I  '11  hide  the  body  in  the 
thicket  yonder,  ere  my  lord  arrives  [drags 

out  the  body]. 

[Enter  RODOLPHO. 

ROD.  Not  here  ?  Can  he  have  failed  ? 
Here  is  blood  —  it  may  be  his.  I  '11  call. 
Hugo,  good  Hugo,  art  thou  here  ? 

HUGO  [stealing  from  the  trees'].  Ay,  my 
lord,  I  am  here.  All  is  safely  done  :  the 
love-sick  boy  lies  yonder  in  the  thicket, 
dead  as  steel  can  make  him.  And  here  is 


OR,   THE  WITCH'S  CURSE.  41 

the  token  if  you  doubt  me,  and  the  ring 
I  just  took  from  his  hand  [gives  letter]. 

ROD.  Nay,  nay,  I  do  not  doubt  thee ; 
keep  thou  the  ring.  I  am  content  with 
this.  Tell  me,  did  he  struggle  with  thee 
when  thou  dealt  the  blow  ? 

HUGO.  Nay,  my  lord ;  he  fell  without 
a  groan,  and  murmuring  something  of  re- 
venge on  thee,  he  died.  Hast  thou  the 
gold? 

ROD.  Yes,  yes,  I  have  it.  Take  it,  and 
remember  I  can  take  thy  life  as  easily  as 
thou  hast  his,  if  thou  shouldst  whisper 
what  hath  been  this  day  done.  Now  go ; 
I  've  done  with  thee. 

HUGO.     And   I   with   thee.     Adieu,  my 

lord. 

[Exit  HUGO. 

ROD.  Now  am  I  safe,  —  no  mortal 
knows  of  Theresa's  death  by  my  hand, 
and  Leonore  is  mine. 

VOICE  [within  the  wood~\.     Never —  never ! 

ROD.  Curses  on  me  !  Am  I  bewitched  ? 
Surely,  I  heard  a  voice ;  perchance  't  was 


42  NORN  A ; 

but  an  echo  [a  wild  laugh  rings  through  the 
trees'].  Fiends  take  the  wood!  I'll  stay 
no  longer!  [Turns  to  fly.  THERESAS  spirit 
rises."]  'T  is  there,  —  help,  help  —  [Rushes 

mildly  out."] 

[Enter  NORNA. 

NORNA.  Ha,  ha!  fiends  shall  haunt 
thee,  thou  murderer !  Another  sin  upon 
thy  soul,  —  another  life  to  be  avenged ! 
Poor,  murdered  youth,  now  gone  to  join 
thy  sister.  I  will  lay  thee  by  her  side 
and  then  to  my  work.  He  hath  raised 
another  ghost  to  haunt  him.  Let  him 

beware  I 

[Exit  NORNA. 

CURTAIN. 


OR,   THE  WITCH'S  CURSE.  43 


SCENE  SIXTH. 

[Chamber  in  the  castle  of  LADY  LEONOKB. 
Enter  LEONORE.] 

LEONORE.  Ah,  how  wearily  the  days  go 
by.  No  tidings  of  Count  Louis,  and  Count 
Rodolpho  urges  on  his  suit  so  earnestly. 
I  must  accept  his  hand  to-day,  or  refuse  his 
love,  and  think  no  more  of  Louis.  I  know 
not  how  to  choose.  Rodolpho  loves  me : 
I  am  an  orphan  and  alone,  and  in  his 
lovely  home  I  may  be  happy.  I  have 
heard  it  whispered  that  he  is  both  stern 
and  cruel,  yet  methinks  it  cannot  be,  — 
he  is  so  tender  when  with  me.  Ah,  would 
I  could  forget  Count  Louis !  He  hath 
never  told  his  love,  and  doubtless  thinks 
no  more  of  her  who  treasures  up  his  gentle 
words,  and  cannot  banish  them,  even  when 
another  offers  a  heart  and  home  few  would 
refuse.  How  shall  I  answer  Count  Ro- 


44  NORN  A  ; 

dolpho  when  he  comes?  I  do  not  love 
him  as  I  should,  and  yet  it  were  no  hard 
task  to  learn  with  so  fond  a  teacher.  Shall 
I  accept  his  love,  or  shall  I  reject  ? 

[NORNA  suddenly  appears. 

NORNA.     Keject. 

LEONORE.  Who  art  thou?  Leave  me, 
or  I  call  for  aid. 

NORNA.  Nay,  lady,  fear  not.  I  come 
not  here  to  harm  thee,  but  to  save  thee 
from  a  fate  far  worse  than  death.  I  am 
old  Norna  of  the  forest,  and  though  they 
call  me  witch  and  sorceress,  I  am  a  woman 
yet,  and  with  a  heart  to  pity  and  to  love. 
I  would  save  thy  youth  and  beauty  from 
the  blight  I  fear  will  fall  upon  thee. 

LEONORE.  Save  me  !  from  what  ?  How 
knowest  thou  I  am  in  danger;  and  from 
what  wouldst  thou  save  me,  Norna  ? 

NORNA.     From  Lord  Rodolpho,  lady. 

LEONORE.  Ah !  and  why  from  him  ? 
Tell  on,  I  '11  listen  to  thee  now.  He  hath 
offered  me  his  heart  and  hand.  Why 
should  I  not  accept  them,  Norna? 


OR,    THE    WITCH'S   CURSE.  45 

NORNA.  That  heart  is  filled  with  dark 
and  evil  passions,  and  that  hand  is  stained 
with  blood.  Ay,  lady,  well  mayst  thou 
start.  I  will  tell  thee  more.  The  splendid 
home  he  would  lead  thee  to  is  darkened  by 
a  fearful  crime,  and  his  fair  palace  haunted 
by  the  spirit  of  a  murdered  wife. 

[LEONORE  starts  up. 

LEONORE.  Wife,  sayest  thou  ?  He  told 
me  he  was  never  wed.  Mysterious  woman, 
tell  me  more  !  How  dost  thou  know  Jt  is 
true,  and  wherefore  was  it  done  ?  I  have 
a  right  to  know.  Oh,  speak,  and  tell  me 
all! 

NORNA.  For  that  have  I  come  hither. 
He  hath  been  wed  to  a  lady,  young  and 
lovely  as  thyself.  He  kept  her  prisoner  in 
his  splendid  home,  and  by  neglect  and 
cruelty  he  broke  as  warm  and  true  a  heart 
as  ever  beat  in  woman's  breast.  Her 
brother  stole  unseen  to  cheer  and  com- 
fort her,  and  this  aroused  her  lord's  sus- 
picions, and  he  bid  her  to  confess  who 
her  unknown  friend.  She  would  not 


46  NORN  A  ; 

yield  her  brother  to  his  hate,  and  he  in 
his  wild  anger  murdered  her.  I  heard  his 
cruel  words,  her  prayers  for  mercy,  and  I 
stood  beside  the  lifeless  form  and  marked 
the  blow  his  evil  hand  had  given  her. 
And  there  I  vowed  I  would  avenge  the 
deed,  and  for  this  have  I  come  hither  to 
warn  thee  of  thy  danger.  He  loves  thee 
only  for  thy  wealth,  and  when  thou  art  his, 
will  wrong  thee  as  he  hath  the  meek  Theresa,. 

LEONORE.  How  shall  I  ever  thank  thee 
for  this  escape  from  sorrow  and  despair? 
I  did  not  love  him,  but  I  am  alone,  and  his 
kind  words  were  sweet  and  tender.  I 
thought  with  him  I  might  be  happy  yet, 
but  —  Ah,  how  little  did  I  dream  of  sin  like 
this !  Thank  Heaven,  't  is  not  too  late ! 

NORNA.  How  wilt  thou  answer  Lord 
Rodolpho  now  ? 

LEONORE.  I  will  answer  him  with  all  the 
scorn  and  loathing  that  I  feel.  I  fear  him 
not,  and  he  shall  learn  how  his  false  vows 
are  despised,  and  his  sins  made  known. 

T  i*  well }  but  stay,  —  be 


OR,   THE    WITCH'S  CURSE.  47 

not  too  proud.  Speak  fairly,  and  reject 
him  courteously ;  for  he  will  stop  at  nought 
in  his  revenge  if  thou  but  rouse,  his  hatred. 
And  now,  farewell.  I  '11  watch  above  thee, 
and  in  thy  hour  of  danger  old  Norna  will 
be  nigh.  Stay,  give  me  some  token,  by 
which  thou  wilt  know  the  messenger  I  may 
find  cause  to  send  thee.  The  fierce  Count 
will  seek  to  win  thee,  and  repay  thy  scorn 
by  all  the  evil  his  cruel  heart  can  bring. 

LEO  NO  RE.  Take  this  ring,  and  I  will 
trust  whoever  thou  mayst  send  with  it. 
1  owe  thee  much,  and,  believe  me,  I  am 
grateful  for  thy  care,  and  will  repay  thee 
by  rny  confidence  and  truth.  Farewell, 
old  Norna;  watch  thou  above  the  helpless, 
and  thine  old  age  shall  be  made  happy  by 
my  care. 

NORNA.  Heaven  bless  thee,  gentle  lady. 
Good  angels  guard  thee.  Norna  will  not 

forget. 

[Exit  NORNA. 

LEONORE.  'T  is  like  a  dream,  so  strange, 
so  terrible,  —  he  whom  I  thought  so  gentle, 


48  NORN  A; 

and  so  true  is  stained  with  fearful  crimes ! 
Poor,  murdered  lady!  Have  I  escaped  a 
fate  like  thine  ?  Ah,  I  hear  his  step ! 
Now,  heart,  be  firm  and  he  shall  enter  here 
no  more. 

[Enter  RODOLPHO. 

ROD.  Sweet  lady,  I  am  here  to  learn 
my  fate.  I  have  told  my  love,  and  thou 
hast  listened ;  I  have  asked  thy  hand, 
and  thou  hast  not  refused  it.  I  have  of- 
fered all  that  I  possess,  —  iny  home,  my 
heart.  Again  I  lay  them  at  thy  feet, 
beloved  Leonore.  Oh,  wilt  thou  but  ac- 
cept them,  poor  tho'  they  be,  and  in 
return  let  me  but  claim  this  fair  hand 
as  mine  own? 

[Takes  her  hand  and  kneels  before  her. 

LEONORE  [withdrawing  her  hand~\.  My 
lord,  forgive  me,  but  I  cannot  grant  it. 
When  last  we  met  thou  didst  bid  me  ask 
my  heart  if  it  could  love  thee.  It  hath 
answered,  "  Nay/'  I  grieve  I  cannot  make 
a  fit  return  for  all  you  offer,  but  I  have  no 
love  to  give,  and  without  it  this  poor  hand 


OR,   THE    WITCH'S   CURSE.  49 

were  worthless.  There  are  others  far  more 
fit  to  grace  thy  home  than  I.  Go,  win  thy- 
self a  loving  bride,  and  so  forget  Leonore. 

ROD.  What  hath  changed  thee  thus 
since  last  we  met.  Then  wert  thou  kind, 
and  listened  gladly  to  my  love.  Now 
there  is  a  scornful  smile  upon  thy  lips, 
and  a  proud  light  in  thine  eye.  What 
means  this  ?  Why  dost  thou  look  so  coldly 
on  me,  Leonore  ?  Who  has  whispered  false 
tales  in  thine  ear  ?  Believe  them  not.  I 
am  as  true  as  Heaven  to  thee ;  then  do 
not  cast  away  the  heart  so  truly  thine. 
Smile  on  me,  dearest;  thou  art  my  first, 
last,  only  love. 

LEONORE.  'Tis  false,  my  lord!  Hast 
thou  so  soon  forgot  Theresa  ? 

ROD.  What!  Who  told  thee  that  ac- 
cursed tale  ?  What  dost  thou  mean, 
Leonore  ? 

LEONORE.  I  mean  thy  sinful  deeds  are 
known.  Thou  hast  asked  me  why  I  will 
not  wed  thee,  and  I  answer,  I  will  not  give 
my  hand  unto  a  murderer. 


50  NORN  A ; 

ROD.  Murderer !  No  more  of  this ! 
Thy  tale  is  false ;  forget  it,  and  I  will 
forgive  the  idle  words.  Now  listen ;  I 
came  hither  to  receive  thy  answer  to  my 
suit.  Think  ere  thou  decide.  Thou  art 
an  orphan,  unprotected  and  alone.  I  am 
powerful  and  great.  Wilt  thou  take  my 
love,  and  with  it  honor,  wealth,  happiness, 
and  ease,  or  my  hate,  which  will  surely 
follow  thec  and  bring  down  desolation  on 
thee  and  all  thou  lovest  ?  Now  choose, 
my  hatred,  or  my  love. 

LEONORE.  My  lord,  I  scorn  thy  love, 
and  I  defy  thy  hate.  Work  thy  will,  I 
fear  thee  not.  I  am  not  so  unprotected 
as  thou  thinkest.  There  are  unseen 
friends  around  me  who  will  save  in  every 
peril,  and  who  are  sworn  to  take  revenge 
on  thee  for  thy  great  sins.  This  is  my 
answer ;  henceforth  we  are  strangers  ;  now 
leave  me.  I  would  be  alone. 

ROD.  Not  yet,  proud  lady.  If  thou 
wilt  not  love,  I  '11  make  thee  learn  to  fear 
the  heart  thou  hast  so  scornfully  cast 


OR,    THE    WITCH'S   CURSE.  51 

away.  Let  thy  friends  guard  thee  well ; 
thou  wilt  need  their  care  when  I  begin 
my  work  of  vengeance.  Thou  mayst 
smile,  but  thou  shalt  rue  the  day  when 
Count  Rodolpho  asked  and  was  refused. 
But  I  will  yet  win  thee,  and  then  beware  ! 
And  when  thou  dost  pray  for  mercy  on  thy 
knees,  remember  the  haughty  words  thou 
hast  this  day  spoken. 

LEONORE.  Do  thy  worst,  murderer; 
spirits  will  watch  above  me,  and  thou 
canst  not  harm.  Adi  u,  my  lord. 

[Exit  LEONORE. 

ROD.  Foiled  again  !  Some  demon  works 
against  me.  Who  could  have  told  her  of 
Theresa  ?  A  little  longer,  and  I  should 
have  won  a  rich  young  bride,  and  now 
this  tale  of  murder  mars  it  all.  But  I  will 
win  her  yet,  and  wring  her  proud  heart 
till  she  shall  bend  her  haughty  head  and 
sue  for  mercy. 

How  shall  it  be  done  ?  Stay  !  Ha,  I  see 
a  way !  —  the  letter  Louis  would  have  sent 
her  ere  he  died.  She  knows  not  of  his 


52  NORN  A; 

death,  and  I  will  send  this  paper  bidding 
her  to  meet  her  lover  in  the  forest.  She 
cannot  doubt  the  lines  his  own  hand  traced. 
She  will  obey,  —  and  I  '11  be  there  to  lead 
her  to  my  castle.  I  '11  wed  her,  and  she 
may  scorn,  weep,  and  pray  in  vain.  Ha, 
ha !  proud  Leonore,  spite  of  thy  guardian 
spirits  thou  shalt  be  mine,  and  then  foi 

my  revenge ! 

[Exit  RODOLPHO 

CURTAIN. 


OR,   THE    WITCH'S   CURSE. 


SCENE  SEVENTH. 

[LEONORE'S  room. 
Enter  LEONORE  with  a  letter.] 

LEONORE.  'T  is  strange ;  an  unknown 
page  thrust  this  into  my  hand  while  kneel  • 
ing  in  the  chapel.  Ah,  surely,  I  should 
know  this  hand  !  'T  is  Louis's,  and  at  last 
he  hath  returned,  and  still  remembers 
Leon  ore  [opens  letter  and  reads]. 

DEAREST  LADY,  —  I  am  banished  from  the 
land  by  Count  Rodolpho's  false  tales  to  the 
king ;  and  thus  I  dare  not  venture  near  thee. 
But  by  the  love  my  lips  have  never  told,  I  do 
conjure  thee  to  bestow  one  last  look,  last  word, 
on  him  whose  cruel  fate  it  is  to  leave  all  that 
he  most  fondly  loves.  If  thou  wilt  grant  this 
prayer,  meet  me  at  twilight  in  the  glen  beside 
old  Norna's  cave.  She  will  be  there  to  guard 
thee.  Dearest  Leonore,  before  we  part,  per- 
chance forever,  grant  this  last  boon  to  one  who 
in  banishment,  in  grief  and  peril,  is  forever  thy 
devoted  Louis. 


54  NORN  A  ; 

He  loves  me,  and  mid  danger  still  re- 
members. Ah,  Louis,  there  is  nothing 
thou  canst  ask  I  will  not  gladly  grant. 
I  '11  go ;  the  sun  is  well-nigh  set,  and  I 
can  steal  away  unseen  to  whisper  hope 
and  comfort  ere  we  part  forever.  Now, 
Count  Rodolpho,  thou  hast  given  me  an- 
other cause  for  hate.  Louis,  I  can  love 
thee  tho'  thou  art  banished  and  afar. 

Hark !  't  is  the  vesper-bell.  Now,  cour- 
age, heart,  and  thou  shalt  mourn  no  longer. 

[Exit  LEONOBE. 

CURTAIN. 


OR,    THE    WITCWS  CURSE.  55 


SCENE   EIGHTH. 

[Grlen  near  NORNA'S  cave. 
Enter  LEONORE.] 

LEONORE.  Norna  is  not  here,  nor 
Louis.  Why  comes  he  not?  Surely  'tis 
the  place.  Norna !  Louis !  art  thou 

here? 

[Enter  RODOLPHO,  masked. 

ROD.  I  am  here,  dear  lady.  Do  not 
fear  me ;  I  may  not  unmask  even  to  thee, 
for  spies  may  still  be  near  me.  Wilt  thou 
pardon,  and  still  trust  me  tho'  thou  canst 
not  see  how  fondly  I  am  looking  on  thee. 
See  !  here  is  my  ring,  my  dagger.  Oh, 
Leonore,  do  not  doubt  me ! 

LEONORE.  I  do  trust  thee ;  canst  thou 
doubt  it  now?  Oh,  Louis!  I  feared  thou 
wert  dead.  Why  didst  thou  not  tell  me 
all  before.  And  where  wilt  thou  go,  and 


56  NORN  A ; 

how  can  I  best  serve  thee  ?  Nought  thou 
canst  ask  my  love  shall  leave  undone. 

ROD.  Wilt  thou  let  me  guide  thee  to 
yonder  tower  ?  I  fear  to  tell  thee  here, 
and  old  Norna  is  there  waiting  for  thee. 
Come,  love,  for  thy  Louis's  sake,  dare  yet 
a  little  more,  and  I  will  tell  thee  how  thou 
canst  serve  me.  Wilt  thou  not  put  thy 
faith  in  me,  Leonore  ? 

LEONORE.  I  will.  Forgive  me,  if  I 
seem  to  fear  thee ;  but  thy  voice  sounds 
strangely  hollow,  and  thine  eyes  look 
darkly  on  me  from  behind  this  mask. 
Thou  wilt  lay  it  by  when  we  are  safe, 
and  then  I  shall  forget  this  foolish  fear 
that  hangs  upon  me. 

ROD.  Thine  own  hands  shall  remove  it, 
love.  Come,  it  is  not  far.  Would  I  might 
guide  thee  thus  through  life !  Come, 

dearest ! 

[Exit. 

CURTAIN. 


OR,   THE   WITCH'S  CURSE.  57 


SCENE  NINTH. 

[  Castle  of  RODOLPHO.     The  haunted  chamber. 
Enter  RODOLPHO  leading  LBONORB.] 

LEONORE.  Where  art  thou  leading  me, 
dear  Louis?  Thy  hiding-place  is  a  pleas- 
ant one,  but  where  is  Norna  ?  I  thought 
she  waited  for  us. 

ROD.  She  will  soon  be  here.  Ah,  how 
can  I  thank  thee  for  this  joyful  hour, 
Leonore.  I  can  forget  all  danger  and 
all  sorrow  now. 

LEONORE.  Nay,  let  me  cast  away  this 
mournful  mask !  I  long  to  look  upon  thy 
face  once  more.  Wilt  thou  let  me,  Louis  ? 

ROD.  Ay,  look  upon  me  if  thou  wilt; 
—  dost  like  it,  lady  ?  [Drops  his  disguise. 
LEONORE  shrieks,  and  rushes  to  the  door,  but 
finds  it  locked.]  'Tis  useless;  there  are 
none  to  answer  to  thy  call.  All  here 
are  my  slaves,  and  none  dare  disobey. 


58  NORN  A ; 

Where  are  thy  proud  words  now?  hast 
thou  no  scornful  smile  for  those  white 
lips,  no  anger  in  those  beseeching  eyes? 
Where  are  thy  friends  ?  Why  come  they 
not  to  aid  thee  ?  Said  I  not  truly  my 
revenge  was  sure  ? 

LEONORE.  Oh,  pardon  me,  and  pity ! 
See,  I  will  kneel  to  thee,  pray,  weep,  if 
thou  wilt  only  let  me  go.  Forgive  my 
careless  words !  Oh,  Count  Rodolpho,  take 
me  home,  and  I  will  forget  this  cruel 
jest  [kneels]. 

ROD.  Ha,  ha !  It  is  no  jest,  and 
thou  hast  no  home  but  this.  Didst  thou 
not  come  willingly  ?  I  used  no  force ; 
and  all  disguise  is  fair  in  love.  Nay, 
kneel  not  to  me.  Did  I  not  say  thou 
wouldst  ben*  thy  proud  head,  and  sue  for 
mercy,  and  I  would  deny  it?  Where  is 
thy  defiance  now  ? 

LEONORE  \_rising~].  I  '11  kneel  no  more 
to  thee.  The  first  wild  fear  is  past,  and 
thou  shalt  find  me  at  thy  feet  no  more. 
As  I  told  thee  then,  I  tell  thee  now,  —  thine 


OR,   THE   WITCH'S  CURSE.  59 

I  will  never  be ;  and  think  not  I  will  fail 
or  falter  at  thy  threats.  Contempt  of  thee 
is  too  strong  for  fear. 

ROD.  Not  conquered  yet.  Time  will 
teach  thee  to  speak  more  courteously  to 
thy  master.  Ah,  thou  mayst  well  look 
upon  these  bawbles.  They  were  thy 
lover's  once.  This  ring  was  taken  from 
his  lifeless  hand;  this  dagger  from  his 
bleeding  breast,  as  he  lay  within  the  forest 
whence  I  led  thee.  This  scroll  I  found 
next  his  heart  when  it  had  ceased  to  beat. 
I  lured  thee  hither  with  it,  and  won  my 
sweet  revenge.  [LEONORE  sinks  doivn  weep- 
ing.'] Now  rest  thee ;  for  when  the  castle 
clock  strikes  ten,  I  shall  come  to  lead  thee 
to  the  altar.  The  priest  is  there,  —  this 
ring  shall  wed  thee.  Farewell,  fair  bride ; 
remember,  —  there  is  no  escape,  and  thou 
art  mine  forever. 

LEONORE  [starting  up].  Never !  I  shall 
be  free  when  thou  mayst  think  help  past 
forever.  There  is  a  friend  to  help  me, 
and  an  arm  to  save,  when  earthly  aid  is 


60  NORN  A; 

lost.     Thine    I    shall    never    be!      Thou 
mayst  seek  me ;   I  shall  be  gone. 

ROD.  Thou  wilt  need  thy  prayers.  I 
shall  return,  —  remember,  when  the  clock 

strikes  ten,  I  come  to  win  iny  bride. 

[Exit. 

LEONORE.  He  has  gone,  and  now  a  few 
short  hours  of  life  are  left  to  me ;  for  if  no 
other  help  shall  come,  death  can  save  me 
from  a  fate  I  loathe.  Ah,  Louis,  Louis,  thou 
art  gone  forever !  Norna,  where  is  thy  prom- 
ise now  to  guard  me  ?  Is  there  no  help  ? 
Nor  tears  nor  prayers  can  melt  that  cruel 
heart,  and  I  am  in  his  power.  Ha !  what 
is  that  ?  —  his  dagger,  taken  from  his  dying 
breast.  How  gladly  would  he  have  drawn 
it  forth  to  save  his  poor  Leonore  !  Alas, 
that  hand  is  cold  forever !  But  I  must 
be  calm.  He  shall  see  how  a  weak 
woman's  heart  can  still  defy  him,  and  win 
liberty  by  death  [takes  the  dagger ;  clock 
strikes  ten].  It  is  the  hour,  —  the  knell  of 
my  young  life.  Hark!  they  come.  Louis, 
thy  Leonore  ere  long  will  join  thee, 
never  more  to  part. 


OR,   THE    WITCH'S   CURSE.  61 

[The  secret  panel  opens.    ADRIAN  enters  masked.] 

ADRIAN.  Stay,  lady !  stay  thy  hand ! 
I  come  to  save  thee.  Norna  sends  me, — 
see,  thy  token ;  doubt  not,  nor  delay  • 
another  moment,  we  are  lost.  Oh,  fly, 
I  do  beseech  thee ! 

LEONORE.  Heaven  bless  thee ;  I  will 
come.  Kind  friend,  I  put  a  helpless  maid- 
en's  trust  in  thee. 

ADRIAN.     Stay  not !  away,  away  ! 
[Exit  through  the  secret  panel,  which  disappears. 

Enter  RoDOLPflO. 

ROD.  Is  my  fair  bride  ready?  Ha! 
Leonore,  where  art  thou  ? 

VOICE.     Gone,  —  gone  forever ! 

ROD.  Girl,  mock  me  not;  come  forth, 
I  say.  Thou  shalt  not  escape  me.  Leo- 
nore, answer !  Where  is  my  bride  ? 

VOICE  [behind  the  curtains'].     Here  — 

ROD.  Why  do  I  fear?  She  is  there  con- 
cealed [lifts  the  curtain;  spirit  of  THERESA 
rises].  The  fiends!  what  is  that?  The 
spirit  haunts  me  still  1 

VOICE.    Forever,  forever  — 

BOP.  [nishet  to  the  door  buttfnfo  it 


62  NORN  A  ; 

What  ho !  without  there  !  Beat  down  the 
door!  Pedro!  Carlos!  let  me  come  forth! 
They  do  not  come  !  Nay,  't  is  my  fancy ; 
I  will  forget  it  all.  Still,  the  door  is  fast ; 
Leonore  is  gone.  Who  groans  so  bitterly  ? 
Wild  voices  are  sounding  in  the  air,  ghastly 
faces  are  looking  on  me  as  I  turn,  unseen 
hands  bar  the  door,  and  dead  men  are  groan- 
ing in  mine  ears.  I  '11  not  look,  not  listen; 
'tis  some  spell  set  on  me.  Let  it  pass! 

[Throws  himself  doivn  and  covers  his  face. 

VOICE.     The  spell  will  not  cease, 
The  curse  will  not  fly, 
And  spirits  shall  haunt 
Till  the  murderer  shall  die. 

ROD.  Again,  spirit  or  demon,  wherefore 
dost  thou  haunt  me,  and  what  art  thou? 
[THERESA'S  spirit  rises.~\  Ha !  am  I  gone 
mad?  Unbar  the  door!  Help!  help! 
[Falls  fainting  to  the  floorl\ 

[Enter  NORNA. 

NORNA.  Lie  there,  thou  sinful  wretch  ! 
Old  Norna's  curse  ends  but  with  thy  life. 

[Tableau. 
CURTAIN. 


OR,   THE    WITCH'S  CURSE.  63 


SCENE  TENTH. 

[A  room  in  the  castle  of  RoDOLPHO. 
Enter  RODOLPHO.] 

ROD.  Dangers  seem  thickening  round 
me.  Some  secret  spy  is  watching  me  un- 
seen,—  I  fear  'tis  Hugo,  spite  the  gold  I 
gave  him,  and  the  vows  he  made.  A 
higher  bribe  may  win  the  secret  from  him, 
and  then  I  am  undone.  Pedro  hath  told 
me  that  a  stranger,  cloaked  and  masked, 
was  lurking  near  the  castle  on  the  night 
when  Leonore  so  strangely  vanished  [a 
laugh~\.  Ha!  —  what's  that? — methought 
I  heard  that  mocking  laugh  again !  I  am 
grown  fearful  as  a  child  since  that  most 
awful  night.  Well,  well,  let  it  pass!  If 
Hugo  comes  to-night,  obedient  to  the  mes- 
sage I  have  sent,  I'll  see  he  goes  not  hence 
alive.  This  cup  shalt  be  thy  last,  good 
Hugo  !  [Puts  poison  in  the  wine-cup.']  He 
comes,  —  now  for  my  revenge  !  [Enter 


64  NORN  A; 

HUGO.]  Ah,  Hugo,  welcome !  How  hath 
it  fared  with  thee  since  last  we  met? 
Thou  lookest  weary,  —  here  is  wine ;  sit 
and  refresh  thyself. 

HUGO.  I  came  not  hither,  Count  Ro- 
dolpho,  to  seek  wine,  but  gold.  Hark  ye  ! 
I  am  poor;  thou  art  rich,  but  in  my 
power,  for  proud  and  noble  though  thou 
art,  the  low-born  Hugo  can  bring  death 
and  dishonor  on  thy  head  by  whispering 
one  word  to  the  king.  Ha !  —  now  give 
me  gold  or  I  will  betray  thee. 

ROD.  Thou  bold  villain,  what  means 
this  ?  I  paid  thee  well,  and  thou  didst 
vow  to  keep  my  secret.  Threaten  me  not. 
Thou  art  in  my  power,  and  shall  never 
leave  this  room  alive.  I  fear  thee  not. 
My  menials  are  at  hand,  —  yield  thyself; 
thou  art  fairly  caught,  and  cannot  now 
escape  me. 

HUGO.  Nay,  not  so  fast,  my  lord.  One 
blast  upon  my  horn,  and  my  brave  band, 
concealed  below,  will  answer  to  my  call. 
Ha !  ha !  thou  art  caught,  my  lord.  Thy 


OR,   THE   WITCHES  CURSE.  65 

life  is  in  my  hands,  and  thou  must  pur- 
chase it  by  fifty  good  pistoles  paid  down  to 
me ;  if  not,  I  will  charge  thee  with  the 
crime  thou  didst  bribe  me  to  perform,  and 
thus  win  a  rich  reward.  Choose,  —  thy 
life  is  nought  to  me. 

ROD.  Do  but  listen,  Hugo.  I  have  no 
gold ;  smile  if  thou  wilt,  but  I  am  poor. 
This  castle  only  is  mine  own,  and  I  am 
seeking  now  a  rich  young  bride  whose 
wealth  will  hide  my  poverty.  Be  just, 
good  Hugo,  and  forgive  the  harsh  words 
I  have  spoken.  Wait  till  I  am  wed,  and 
I  will  pay  thee  well. 

HUGO.  That  will  I  not.  I'll  have  no 
more  of  thee,  false  lord !  The  king  will 
well  reward  me,  and  thou  mayst  keep 
thy  gold.  Farewell!  Thou  wilt  see  me 


once  again. 


ROD.  Stay,  Hugo,  stay !  Give  me  but 
time ;  I  may  obtain  the  gold.  Wait  a 
little,  and  it  shall  be  thine.  Wilt  thou 
not  drink?  'Tis  the  wine  thou  likest  so 
well.  See  !  I  poured  it  ready  for  thee. 


66  NORN  A ; 

HUGO.  Nay ;  I  will  serve  myself.  Wine 
of  thy  mixing  would  prove  too  strong  for 
me  [sits  down  and  drinks.  RODOLPHO  paces 
up  and  down  waiting  a  chance  to  stab  him]. 
Think  quickly,  my  good  lord  ;  I  must  be 
gone  [turns  his  head.  R.  raises  his  dagger. 
HUGO  rising].  I  '11  wait  no  more  ;  't  is 
growing  late,  and  I  care  not  to  meet  the 
spirits  which  I  <  hear  now  haunt  thy  castle. 
Well,  hast  thou  the  gold  ? 

ROD.     Not  yet ;  but  if  thou  wilt  wait  — 

HUGO.  I  tell  thee  I  will  not,  I  '11  be 
deceived  no  longer.  Thou  art  mine,  and 
I  '11  repay  thy  scornful  words  and  sinful 
deeds  by  a  prisoner's  cell.  And  so,  adieu, 
my  lord.  Escape  is  useless,  for  thou  wilt 
be  watched.  Hugo  is  the  master  now ! 

[Exit  HUGO. 

ROD.  Thou  cunning  villain,  I'll  out- 
wit thee  yet.  I  will  disguise  myself,  and 
watch  thee  well,  and  when  least  thou 
thinkest  it,  my  dagger  shall  be  at  thy 
breast.  And  now  one  thing  remains  to 
me,  and  that  is  flight.  I  must  leave  all 


OR,    THE    WITCH'S   CURSE.  67 

and  go  forth  poor,  dishonored,  and  alone ; 
sin  on  my  head,  and  fear  within  my  heart. 
Will  the  sun  never  set  ?  How  slow  the 
hours  pass  !  In  the  first  gloom  of  night, 
concealed  in  yonder  old  monk's  robe,  I  '11 
silently  glide  forth,  and  fly  from  Hugo 
and  this  haunted  house.  Courage,  Ro- 
dolpho,  thou  shalt  yet  win  a  name  and 
fortune  for  thyself.  Now  let  me  rest 
awhile ;  I  shall  need  strength  for  the 
perils  of  the  night  [lies  down  and  sleeps]. 

[Enter  NORNA. 

NORNA.     Poor  fool !   thy  greatest  foe  is 
here,  —  her  thou  shalt  not  escape.     Hugo 
shall  be  warned,  and  thou  alone  shalt  fall. 
[She  makes  signs  from  the  window  and  vanishes. 

ROD.  [awakes  and  rises].  Ah,  what  fear- 
ful dreams  are  mine!  Therese  —  Louis — 
still  they  haunt  me  !  Whither  shall  I  turn  ? 
Who  comes  ?  [Enter  GASPARD.]  Art  thou 
another  phantom  sent  to  torture  me  ? 

GASP.  'T  is  I,  leader  of  the  king's 
frrave  guards,  *e»t  father  t 


68  NORN  A  ; 

my  lord;  for  thou  art  charged  with 
murder. 

ROD.  Who  dares  to  cast  so  foul  a  stain 
on  Count  Rodolpho's  name. 

GASP.  My  lord,  yield  thyself.  The 
king  may  show  thee  mercy  yet  — 

ROD.  I  will  yield,  and  prove  my  inno- 
cence, and  clear  mine  honor  to  the  king. 
Reach  me  my  cloak  yonder,  and  I  am 
ready. 

[GASPARD  turns  to  seek  the  cloak.     RODOLPHO 
leaps  from  the  window  and  disappears. 

GASP.  Ha !  he  hath  escaped,  —  curses 
on  my  carelessness !  [Rushes  to  the  window. ~] 
Ho,  there  !  surround  the  castle,  the  pris- 
oner hath  fled  !  We  '11  have  him  yet, 
the  blood-stained  villain ! 

[Exit  GASPARD.     Shouts  and  clashing  of  swords 
heard. 

CURTAIK. 


OR,   THE   WITCH'S  CURSE.  69 


SCENE  ELEVENTH. 

[NORNA'S  cave. 
LEONORE  and  ADRIAN.] 

ADRIAN.  Dear  lady,  can  I  do  nought 
to  while  away  the  lonely  hours?  Shall  I 
go  forth  and  bring  thee  flowers,  or  seek 
thy  home  and  bear  away  thy  bird,  thy 
lute,  or  aught  that  may  beguile  thy  soli- 
tude ?  It  grieves  me  that  I  can  do  so 
little  for  thee. 

LEONORE.  Nay,  't  is  I  should  grieve 
that  I  can  find  no  way  to  show  my  grati- 
tude to  thee,  my  brave  deliverer.  But 
wilt  thou  not  tell  me  who  thou  art  ?  I 
would  fain  know  to  whom  I  owe  rny  life 
and  liberty. 

ADRIAN.  Nay,  that  I  may  not  tell  thee. 
I  have  sworn  a  solemn  vow,  and  till  that 
is  fulfilled  I  may  not  cast  aside  this  sor- 
rowful disguise.  Meanwhile,  thou  mayst 
call  me  Adrian.  Wilt  thou  pardon  and 
trust  me  still? 


70  NORN  A ; 

LEONORE.  Canst  thou  doubt  my  faith 
in  thee?  Thou  and  old  Norna  are  the 
only  friends  now  left  to  poor  Leonore. 
I  put  my  whole  heart's  trust  in  thee. 
But  if  thou  canst  not  tell  me  of  thyself, 
wilt  tell  me  why  thou  hast  done  so  much 
for  me,  a  friendless  maiden  ? 

ADRIAN.  I  fear  it  will  cause  thee  sorrow, 
lady ;  and  thou  hast  grief  enough  to  bear. 

LEONORE.  Do  not  fear.  I  would  so 
gladly  know  — 

ADRIAN.  Forgive  me  if  I  make  thee 
weep  :  I  had  a  friend,  —  most  dear  to  me. 
He  loved  a  gentle  lady,  but  ere  he  could 
tell  her  this,  he  died,  and  bid  me  vow  to 
watch  above  her  whom  he  loved,  and 
guard  her  with  my  life.  I  took  the 
vow:  that  lady  was  thyself,  that  friend 
Count  Louis. 

LEONORE.  Ah,  Louis!  Louis!  that  heart 
thou  feared  to  ask  is  buried  with  thee. 

ADRTAN.     Thou  didst  love  him,  lady  ? 

LEONORE.  Love  him  ?  Most  gladly 
would  I  lie  down  within  my  grave  to- 


OR,    THE    WITCH'S   CURSE.  71 

night,  could  I  but  call    him  back  to  life 
again. 

ADRIAN.  Grieve  not;  thou  hast  one 
friend  who  cannot  change,  —  one  who 
through  joy  and  sorrow  will  find  his 
truest  happiness  in  serving  thee.  Hist ! 
I  hear  a  step  :  I  will  see  who  comes. 

[Exit  ADRIAN. 

LEONORE.     Kind,   watchful  friend,   how 

truly  do  I  trust  thee ! 

[Re-enter  ADRIAN. 

ADRIAN.  Conceal  thyself,  dear  lady, 
with  all  speed.  'T  is  Count  Rodolpho. 
Let  me  lead  thee  to  the  inner  cave,  — 
there  thou  wilt  be  safe. 

[They  retire  within  ;  noise  heard  without.     Enter 
RODOLPHO. 

ROD.  At  last  I  am  safe.  Old  Norna 
will  conceal  me  till  I  can  find  means  to 
leave  the  land.  Ha !  —  voices  within 
there.  Ho,  there!  old  wizard,  hither!  I 
have  need  of  thee  ! 

[Enter  ADRIAN. 

ADRIAN.     What  wouldst  thou  ? 


72  NORN  A; 

ROD.  Nought.  Get  thee  hence !  I  seek 
old  Norna. 

ADRIAN.  Thou  canst  not  see  her ;  she 
is  not  here. 

KOD.  Not  here  ?  T  is  false,  —  I  heard 
a  woman's  voice  within  there.  Let  me 
pass! 

ADRIAN.  'T  is  not  old  Norna,  and  thou 
canst  not  pass. 

ROD.  Ah,  then,  who  might  it  be,  my 
most  mysterious  sir? 

ADRIAN.     The  Lady  Leonore. 

ROD.  Ha  !  —  how  came  she  hither  ?  By 
my  soul,  thou  liest!  Stand  back  and  let 
me  go.  She  is  mine  ! 

ADRIAN.  Thou  canst  only  enter  here 
above  rny  lifeless  body.  Leonore  is  here, 
and  I  am  her  protector  and  thy  deadliest 
foe.  'T  is  for  thee  to  yield  and  leave  this 
cell. 

ROD.  No  more  of  this,  —  thou  hast  es- 
caped me  once.  Draw  and  defend  thyself, 
if  thou  hast  courage  to  meet  a  brave  man's 
sword ! 


OR,    THE    WITCH'S   CURSE.  73 

ADRIAN.  But  for  Leonore  I  would  not 
stoop  so  low,  or  stain  my  sword  ;  but  for 
her  sake  I  '11  dare  all,  and  fight  thee  to  the 
last. 

[  They  fyht  their  way  out     Enter  RODOLPHO. 

ROD.  At  length  fate  smiles  upon  me. 
I  am  the  victor,  —  and  now  for  Leonore  ! 
All  danger  is  forgotten  in  the  joy  of 
winning  iny  revenge  on  this  proud  girl ! 
Thou  art  mine  at  last,  Leonore,  and  mine 
forever !  [Rushes  towards  the  inner  cave. 
Spirit  of  THERESA  rises.']  There  'tis  again  ! 
I  will  not  fly,  —  I  do  defy  it !  [Attempts  to 
pass.  Spirit  touches  him  ;  he  drops  his  szvord 
and  rushes  ivildly  away.~\  'T  is  vain  :  I  can- 
not —  dare  not  pass.  It  comes,  it  follows 
me.  Whither  shall  I  fly  ? 

[Exit.     Enter  ADRIAN  wounded. 

ADRIAN.  I  have  saved  her  once  again, 
—  but  oh,  this  deathlike  faintness  stealing 
o'er  me  robs  me  of  my  strength.  Thou 
art  safe,  Leonore,  and  I  am  content. 

[Falls  fainting^] 

[Enter  LEONORE. 


74  NORNA ; 

LEONORE.  They  are  gone.  Ah,  what 
has  chanced  ?  I  heard  his  voice,  and  now 
't  is  still  as  death.  Where  is  my  friend  ? 
God  grant  he  be  not  hurt!  I '11  venture 
forth  and  seek  him  [sees  ADRIAN  un- 
conscwus  before  her].  Oh,  what  is  this? 
Adrian,  kind  friend,  dost  thou  not  hear 
me  ?  There  is  blood  upon  his  hand !  Can 
he  be  dead  ?  No,  no !  he  breathes,  he 
moves  ;  this  mask,  I  will  remove  it, — surely 
he  will  forgive. 

[Attempts  to  unmask  him  ;  he  prevents  her. 

ADRIAN  [reviving].  Nay,  nay;  it  must 
not  be.  I  am  better  now.  The  blow  but 
stunned  me,  —  it  will  pass  away.  And 
thou  art  safe  ? 

LEONORE.  I  feared  not  for  myself,  but 
thee.  Come,  rest  thee  here,  thy  wound  is 
bleeding ;  let  me  bind  it  with  my  kerchief, 
and  bring  thee  wine.  Let  me  serve  thee 
who  hath  done  so  much  for  me.  Art  better 
now  1  Can  I  do  aught  else  for  thee  ? 

ADRIAN.  No  more,  dear  larly.  Think 
not  of  me,  and  listen  while  I  tell  thee  of  the 


OR,    THE    WITCH'S  CURSE.  75 

dangers  that  surround  thee.  Count  Rodolpho 
knows  thou  art  here,  and  may  return  with 
men  and  arms  to  force  thee  hence.  My 
single  arm  could  then  avail  not,  though  I 
would  gladly  die  for  thee.  Where  then 
can  I  lead  thee,  —  no  place  can  be  too  dis- 
tant, no  task  too  hard  for  him  whose  joy  it 
is  to  serve  thee. 

LEONORE.  Alas !  I  know  not.  I  dare 
not  seek  my  home  while  Count  Rodolpho 
is  my  foe  ;  my  servants  would  be  bribed,  — 
they  would  betray  me,  and  thou  wouldst 
not  be  there  to  save.  Adrian,  I  have  no 
friend  but  thee.  Oh,  pity  and  protect  me  ! 

ADRIAN.  Most  gladly  will  I,  dearest 
lady.  Thou  canst  never  know  the  joy  thy 
confidence  hath  wakened  in  my  heart.  I 
will  save  and  guard  thee  with  my  life.  1 
will  guide  thee  to  a  peaceful  home  where 
no  danger  can  approach,  and  only  friends 
surround  thee.  Thy  Louis  dwelt  there 
once,  and  safely  mayst  thou  rest  till  danger 
shall  be  past.  Will  this  please  thee  ? 

LEONORE.     Oh,  Adrian,  thou  kind,  true 


76  NORNA  ; 

friend,  how  can  I  tell  my  gratitude,  and 
where  find  truer  rest  than  in  his  home, 
where  gentle  memories  of  him  will  lighten 
grief.  Then  take  me  there,  and  I  will 
prove  my  gratitude  by  woman's 'fondest 
friendship,  and  my  life-long  trust. 

ADRIAN.  Thanks,  dear  lady.  I  need  no 
other  recompense  than  the  joy  'tis  in  iny 
power  to  give  thee.  I  will  watch  faith- 
fully above  thee,  and  when  thou  needest 
me  no  more,  I  '11  leave  thee  to  the  happi- 
ness thy  gentle  heart  so  well  deserves.  Now 
rest,  while  I  seek  out  old  Norna,  and  pre- 
pare all  for  our  flight.  The  way  we  have 
to  tread  is  long  and  weary.  Rest  thee, 
dear  lady. 

LEONORE.  Adieu,  dear  friend.  I  will 
await  thee  ready  for  our  pilgrimage,  and 
think  not  I  shall  fail  or  falter,  thflugh  the 
path  be  long,  and  dangers  gather  round  us. 
I  shall  not  fear,  for  thou  wilt  be  there. 

God  bless  thee,  Adrian. 

[Tableau. 

CURTAIN. 


OR,   THE    WITCH'S   CURSE.  77 


SCENE  TWELFTH 

« 

[Room  in  the  castle  of  Louis. 
LEONORE  singing  to  her  lute.] 

The  weary  bird  mid  stormy  skies, 

Flies  home  to  her  quiet  nest, 
And  'mid  the  faithful  ones  she  loves, 
Finds  shelter  and  sweet  rest. 

And  thou,  my  heart,  like  to  tired  bird, 
Hath  found  a  peaceful  home, 

Where  love's  soft  sunlight  gently  falls, 
And  sorrow  cannot  come. 

LEONORE.  Tis  strange  that  I  can  sing, 
but  in  this  peaceful  home  my  sorrow  seems 
to  change  to  deep  and  quiet  joy.  Louis 
seems  ever  near,  and  Adrian's  silent  acts  of 
tenderness  beguile  my  solitary  hours,  and 
daily  grow  more  dear  to  me.  He  guards 
me  day  and  night,  seeking  to  meet  my 
slightest  wish,  and  gather  round  me  all  I 
hold  most  dear.  [Enter  a  PAGE.]  Angelo? 
what  wouldst  thou? 


78  NORN  A; 

PAGE.  My  master  bid  me  bring  these 
flowers  and  crave  thee  to  accept  them  lady. 

LEONORE.  Bear  him  rny  thanks,  and  tell 
him  that  his  gift  is  truly  welcome.  [Exit 
PAGE.]  These  are  the  blossoms  he  was 
gathering  but  now  upon  the  balcony  ;  he 
hath  sent  the  sweetest  and  the  fairest 
[a  letter  falls  from  the  nosegay].  But  what  Ls 
here  ?  He  hath  never  sent  me  aught  like 
this  before  [opens  and  reads  the  letter]. 

DEAREST  LADY,  —  Wilt  thou  pardon  the  bold 

words  I  here  address  to  thee,  and  forgive  me  if 

I  grieve  one  on  whom  I  would  bestow  only  the 

truest  joy.     In  giving  peace  to  thy  heart  I  have 

lost  mine  own.     I  was  thy  guide  and  comforter, 

and  soon,  unknown  to  thee,  thy  lover.     I  love 

thee,  Leonbre,  fondly  and  truly  ;  and  here  I  ask, 

wilt  thou  accept  the  offering  of  a  heart  that  will 

forever  cherish  thee.     If  thou  canst  grant  this 

blessed  boon,  fling  from  the  casement  the  white 

rose  1  send  thee ;   but  if  thou  canst  not  accept 

my  love,  forgive  me  for  avowing  it,  and  drop  the 

cypress  bough  I  have  twined  about  the  rose.     I 

will  not  pain  thee   to  refuse  in   words,  —  the 

j»  enough,  Afk  tfcwe  pwn 


OR,    THE    WITCH'S   CURSE.  79 

if  them,  who  hast  loved  Louis,  can  feel  aught 

save    friendship    for    the    unknown,    nameless 

stranger,  who  through  life   and  death  is  ever 

Thy  loving  ADRIAN. 

Oh,   how   shall   I   reply  to   this,  —  how 
blight  a  love  so  tender  and  so  true?     I 
have  longed  to  show  my  gratitude,  to  prove 
how  I  have  revered  this  noble  friend.     The 
hour  has  come  when  I  may  make  his  hap- 
piness,   and    prove    my    trust.      And    yet 
my  heart   belongs   to  Louis,  and  I  cannot 
love   another.     Adrian  was  his  friend;  he 
loved  him,  and  confided  me  to  him.    Nobly 
hath    he   fulfilled    that    trust,   and    where 
could  I  find   a  truer  friend  than  he  who 
hath  saved  me  from  danger  and  from  death, 
and  now  gives  me  the  power  to  gladden 
and  to  bless  his  life.     Adrian,  if  thou  wilt 
accept  a  sister's  love  and  friendship,  they 
shall  be  thine.    Louis,  forgive  me  if  I  wrong 
thee ;  for  though  I  yield  my  hand,  my  heart 
is  thine  forever.    This  rose,  Adrian,  to  thee  ; 
this   mournful   cypress   shall    be   mine   in 
memory  of  my  blighted  hopes  [goes  to  the 


80  NORN  A; 

window  and  looks  ouf\ .  See !  he  is  waiting  yon- 
der by  the  fountain  for  the  token  that  shall 
bring  him  joy  or  sorrow.  Thou  nolle 
friend,  thy  brave,  true  heart  shall  grieve  no 
longer,  for  thus  will  Leonore  repay  the 
debt  of  gratitude  she  owes  thee  [flings  the 
rose  from  the  window\.  He  hath  placed  it  in 
his  bosom,  and  is  coming  hither  to  pour 
forth  his  thanks  for  the  poor  gift  bestowed. 
I  will  tell  him  all,  and  if  he  will  accept,  then 

I  am  his. 

[Enter  ADRIAN  with  the  rose. 

ADRIAN.  Dear  lady,  how  can  I  tell  thee 
the  joy  thou  hast  given  me.  This  blessed 
flower  from  thy  dear  hand  hath  told  thy 
pardon  and  consent.  Oh,  Leonore,  canst 
thou  love  a  nameless  stranger  who  is  so 
unworthy  the  great  boon  thou  givest. 

LEONORE.  Listen,  Adrian,  ere  thou  dost 
thank  me  for  a  divided  heart.  Thou  hast 
been  told  my  love  for  Louis ;  he  was  thy 
friend,  and  well  thou  knowest  how  true 
and  tender  was  the  heart  he  gave  me.  He 
hath  gone,  and  with  him  rests  my  first  deep 


OR,   THE   WITCH'S   CURSE.  81 

love.  Thou  art  my  only  friend  and  my 
protector ;  thou  hast  won  my  gratitude  and 
warmest  friendship.  I  can  offer  thee  a  sis- 
ter's pure  affection,  —  my  hand  is  thine  ; 
and  here  I  pledge  thee  that  as  thou  hast 
watched  o'er  me,  so  now  thy  happiness 
shall  be  my  care,  thy  love  my  pride  and 
joy.  Here  is  my  hand,  —  wilt  thou  accept 
it,  Adrian? 

ADRIAN.  I  will.  I  would  not  seek  to 
banish  from  thy  heart  the  silent  love  thou 
bearest  Louis.  I  am  content  if  thou  wilt 
trust  me  with  thy  happiness,  and  give  me 
the  sweet  right  to  guide  and  guard  thee 
through  the  pilgrimage  of  life.  God  bless 
thee,  dearest. 

LEONORE.  Dear  Adrian,  can  I  do  nought 
for  thee  ?  I  have  now  won  the  right  to 
cheer  thy  sorrows.  Have  faith  in  thy 
Leonore. 

ADRIAN.  Thou  hast  a  right  to  know 
all,  and  ere  long  thou  shalt.  My  mysterious 
vow  will  now  soon  be  fulfilled,  and  then  no 
doubt  shall  part  us.  Thou  hast  placed  thy 

6 


82  XORNA  ; 

trust  in  me,  and  I  have  not  betrayed  it,  and 
now  I  ask  a  greater  boon  of  thy  confiding 
heart.  Wilt  thou  consent  to  wed  me  ere  I 
cast  aside  this  mask  forever  ?  Believe  me, 
thou  wilt  not  regret  it,  —  't  is  part  of  my 
vow ;  one  last  trial,  and  I  will  prove  to  thee 
thou  didst  not  trust  in  vain.  Forgive  if  I 
have  asked  too  much.  Nay,  thou  canst 
not  grant  so  strange  a  boon. 

LEONORE.  I  can  —  I  will.  I  did  but 
pause,  for  it  seemed  strange  thou  couldst 
not  let  me  look  upon  thy  face.  But  think 
not  that  I  fear  to  grant  thy  wish.  Thy 
heart  is  pure  and  noble,  and  that  thou  canst 
not  mask.  As  I  trusted  thee  through  my 
despair,  so  now  I  trust  thee  in  my  joy. 
Canst  thou  ask  more,  dear  friend  ? 

ADRIAN.  Ever  trust  me  thus!  Ah, 
Leonore,  how  can  I  repay  thee  ?  My  love, 
my  life,  are  all  I  can  give  thee  for  the 
blessed  gift  thou  hast  bestowed.  A  time 
will  come  when  all  this  mystery  shall  cease 
and  we  shall  part  no  more.  Now  must  I 


OR,    THE   WITCH'S  CURSE.  83 

leave  thee,  dearest    Farewell !    Soon  will  I 

return. 

[Exit  ADRIAN. 

LEONORE.  I  will  strive  to  be  a  true  and 
loving  wife  to  thee,  dear  Adrian ;  for  I 
have  won  a  faithful  friend  in  thee  forever. 

CURTAIN. 


.'• 


84  NORN  A ; 


SCENE   THIRTEENTH. 

[Hall  in  the  castle  of  COUNT  Louis. 
Enter  LEONORE,  in  bridal  robes.] 

LEONORE.  At  length  the  hour  hath 
come,  when  I  shall  look  upon  the  face  of 
him  whom  I  this  day  have  sworn  to  love 
and  honor  as  a  wife.  I  have,  perchance, 
been  rash  in  wedding  one  I  know  not,  but 
will  not  cast  a  doubt  on  him  who  hath 
proved  the  noble  heart  that  beats  within 
his  breast.  I  am  his,  and  come  what  may, 
the  vows  I  have  this  day  made  shall  be 
unbroken.  Ah,  he  comes ;  ancj  now  shall 
I  gaze  upon  my  husband's  face  ! 

[Enter  ADRIAN. 

ADRIAN.  Dearest,  fear  not.  Thou  wilt 
not  trust  me  less  when  thou  hast  looked 
upon  the  face  so  long  concealed.  My  vow 
is  ended,  thou  art  won.  Thy  hand  is  roinej 
I  claim  thy 


OR,   THE    WITCH'S  CURSE.  85 

[Unmasks.     LEONORB  screams  and  falls  upon  his 
breast. 

LEONORE.  Louis,  Louis!  T is  a  blessed 
dream  ! 

Louis.  No  dream,  my  Leonore ;  it 
is  thy  living  Louis  who  hath  watched 
above  thee,  and  now  claims  thee  for  his 
own.  Ah,  dearest,  I  have  tried  thee  too 
hardly,  —  pardon  me  ! 

LEONORE.  Oh,  Louis,  husband,  I  have 
nought  to  pardon ;  my  life,  my  liberty, 
my  happiness,  —  all,  all,  I  owe  to  thee. 
How  shall  I  repay  thee  ?  [  Weeps  upon  his 
bosom."] 

Louis.  By  banishing  these  tears,  dear 
love,  and  smiling  on  me  as  you  used  to  do. 
Here,  love,  sit  beside  me  while  I  tell  thee 
my  most  strange  tale,  and  then  no  longer 
shalt  thou  wonder.  Art  happy  now  thy 
Adrian  hath  flung  by  his  mask  ? 

LEONORE.  Happy!  What  deeper  joy 
can  I  desire  than  that  of  seeing  thy  dear 
face  once  more  ?  But  tell  me,  Louis,  how 
couldst  thou  dwell  so  long  beside  me  and 


86  NORN  A ; 

not  cheer  my,  bitter  sorrow  when  I  grieved 
for  thee. 

Louis.  Ah,  Leonore,  thou  wouldst  not 
reproach  me,  didst  thou  know  how  hard 
I  struggled  with  my  heart,  lest  I  should 
by  some  tender  word,  some  fond  caress, 
betray  myself  when  thou  didst  grieve  for 
me. 

LEONORE.  Why  didst  thou  fear  to  tell 
thy  Leonore  ?  She  would  have  aided  and 
consoled  thee.  Why  didst  thou  let  me 
pine  in  sorrow  at  thy  side,  when  but  a 
word  had  filled  my  heart  with  joy  ? 

Louis.  Dearest,  I  dared  not.  Thou 
knowest  I  was  banished  by  the  hate  of 
that  fiend  Rodolpho.  I  had  a  fair  and 
gentle  sister,  whom  he  wed,  and  after 
cruelty  and  coldness  that  I  dread  to  thinU 
of  now,  he  murdered  her.  I  sought  old 
Norna's  aid.  She  promised  it,  and  well  hath 
kept  her  word.  When  Count  Rodolpho's 
ruffian  left  me  dying  in  the  forest,  she 
saved,  and  brought  me  back  to  life.  She 
bade  me  take  a  solemn  vow  not  to  betray 


OR,    THE    WITCH'S   CURSE.  87 

myself,  and  to  aid  her  in  her  vengeance 
on  the  murderer  of  Theresa.  Nor  could 
I  own  my  name  and  rank,  lest  it  should 
reach  the  king  who  had  banished  me. 
The  vow  I  took,  and  have  fulfilled. 

LEONORE.  And  is  there  no  danger  now  ? 
Art  thou  safe,  dear  Louis,  from  the  Count  ? 

Louis.  Fear  not,  my  love.  He  will 
never  harm  us  more ;  his  crimes  are 
known.  The  king  hath  pardoned  me.  I 
have  won  thee  back.  He  is  an  outcast^ 
and  old  Norna's  spells  have  well-nigh 
driven  him  mad.  My  sister,  thou  art  well 
avenged  !  Alas !  alas !  would  I  could  have 
saved,  and  led  thee  hither  to  this  happy 
home. 

LEONORE.  Ah,  grieve  not,  Louis ;  she  is 
happy  now,  and  thy  Leonore  will  strive  to 
fill  her  place.  Hast  thou  told  me  all  ? 

Louis.  Nay,  love.  Thou  knowest  how 
I  watched  above  thee,  but  thou  canst 
never  know  the  joy  thy  faithful  love  for 
one  thou  mourned  as  dead  hath  brought 
me.  I  longed  to  cast  aside  the  dark  dis- 


88  NORN  A; 

guise  I  had  vowed  to  wear,  but  dared  not 
while  Rodolpho  was  at  liberty.  Now  all 
is  safe.  I  have  tried  thy  love,  and  found 
it  true.  Oh,  may  I  prove  most  worthy  of 
it,  dearest. 

LEONORE.  Louis,  how  can  I  love  too 
faithfully  the  friend  who,  'mid  his  own 
grief  and  danger,  loved  and  guarded  me. 
I  trusted  thee  as  Adrian;  as  Louis  I  shall 
love  thee  until  death. 

Louis.  And  I  shall  prize  most  tenderly 
the  faithful  heart  that  trusted  me  through 
doubt  and  mystery.  Now  life  is  bright 
and  beautiful  before  us,  and  may  you 
never  sorrow  that  thou  gav'st  thy  heart  to 
Louis,  and  thy  hand  to  Adrian  the  "  Black 
Mask." 

CURTAIN. 


OR,   THE   WITCH'S  CURSE.  89 


SCENE  FOURTEENTH. 

[ A  dungeon  cell. 

RODOLPHO  chained,  asleep. 

Enter  NORNA.] 

NORN  A.    Thy  fate  is  sealed,  thy  course  is 

run, 
And  Norna's  work  is  well-nigh  done. 

[Vanishes.     Enter  HUGO. 

ROD.  [awaking'].  Mine  eyes  are  bewil- 
dered by  the  forms  I  have  looked  upon 
in  sleep.  Methought  old  Norna  stood  be- 
side me,  whispering  evil  spells,  calling 
fearful  phantoms  to  bear  me  hence. 

HUGO  [coming forward"].  Thy  evil  con- 
science gives  thee  little  rest,  my  lord. 

ROD.  [starting  up].  Who  is  there  ? 
Stand  back !  I  '11  sell  my  life  most  dearly. 
Ah,  't  is  no  dream,  —  I  am  fettered  !  Where 
is  my  sword  ? 

HUGO.  In  my  safe  keeping,  Count 
Rodolpho,  lest  in  thy  rage  thou  may'st  be 


90  NORN  A  / 

tempted  to  add  another  murder  to  thy 
list  of  sins.  [RODOLPHO  sinks  down  in 
despair  J\  Didst  think  thou  couldst  escape  ? 
Ah,  no;  although  most  swift  of  foot  and 
secret,  Hugo  hath  watched  and  followed 
thee.  I  swore  to  win  both  gold  and  ven- 
geance. The  king  hath  offered  high  re- 
ward for  thy  poor  head,  and  it  is  mine. 
Methinks  it  may  cheer  your  solitude  my 
lord,  so  I  came  hither  on  my  way  to  bear 
thy  death  warrant  to  the  captain  of  the 
guard.  What  wilt  thou  give  for  this? 
Hark  ye !  were  this  destroyed,  thou 
might'st  escape  ere  another  were  pre- 
pared. How  dost  thou  like  the  plot? 

ROD.  And  wilt  thou  save  me,  Hugo? 
Give  me  not  up  to  the  king !  I  '11  be  thy 
slave.  All  I  possess  is  thine.  I  '11  give 
thee  countless  gold.  Ah,  pity,  and  save 
me,  Hugo  ! 

HUGO.  Ha,  ha !  I  did  but  jest. 
Thinkest  thou  I  could  forego  the  joy  of 
seeing  thy  proud  head  laid  low?  Where 
was  thy  countless  gold  when  I  did  ask  it 


OR,   THE   WITCH'S  CURSE.  91 

of  thee  ?  No,  no ;  thou  canst  not  tempt 
uie  to  forget  my  vengeance.  'T  is  Hugo's 
turn  to  play  the  master  now.  Mayst  thou 
rest  well,  and  so,  good  even,  my  lord. 

[Exit  HUGO. 

ROD.  Thus  end  my  hopes  of  freedom. 
My  life  is  drawing  to  a  close,  and  all  my 
sins  seem  rising  up  before  me.  The  forms 
of  my  murdered  victims  flit  before  me, 
and  their  dying  words  ring  in  mine  ears,  — 
Leonore  praying  for  mercy  at  my  feet; 
old  Norna  whispering  curses  on  my  soul. 
How  am  I  haunted  and  betrayed  !  Oh, 
fool,  fool  that  I  have  been  !  My  pride,  my 
passion,  all  end  in  this  !  Hated,  friendless, 
and  alone,  the  proud  Count  Rodolpho  dies 
a  felon's  death.  'T  is  just,  't  is  just !  [Enter 
Louis  masked.]  What 's  that  ?  Who  spoke  ? 
Ah,  't  is  mine  unknown  foe.  What  wouldst 
thou  here  ? 

Louis.  Thou  didst  bribe  one  Hugo  to 
murder  the  young  Count  Louis,  whom 
thou  didst  hate.  He  did  thy  bidding,  and 
thy  victim  fell ;  but  Norna  saved,  and 


92  NORNA ; 

healed  his  wounds.  She  told  him  of  his 
murdered  sister's  fate,  and  he  hath  joined 
her  in  her  work  of  vengeance,  and  foiled 
thee  in  thy  sinful  plots.  I  saved  Leonore, 
and  guarded  her  till  I  had  won  her  heart 
and  hand,  and  in  her  love  find  solace  for 
the  sorrow  thou  hast  caused.  Dost  doubt 
the  tale  ?  Look  on  thine  unknown  foe, 
and  find  it  true  \immasJcs~\. 

ROD.  Louis,  whom  I  hated,  and  would 
kill,  —  thou  here,  thou  husband  of  Leonore, 
happy  and  beloved !  It  is  too  much,  too 
much !  If  thou  lovest  life,  depart.  I  'm 
going  mad :  I  see  wild  phantoms  whirl- 
ing round  me,  voices  whispering  fearful 
words  within  mine  ears.  Touch  me  not, 
—  there  is  blood  upon  my  hands !  Will 
this  dream  last  forever? 

Louis.    May  Heaven  pity  thee !   Theresa, 

thou  art  avenged. 

[Exit  Louis. 

ROD.  Ah,  these  are  fearful  memories 
for  a  dying  hour !  [Casts  himself  upon  the 
floor] 


OR,   THE   WITCH'S  CURSE.  93 

[Enter  NORN  A. 

NORNA.  Sinful  man,  didst  think  thy 
death-bed  could  be  peaceful?  As  they 
have  haunted  thee  in  life,  so  shall  spirits 
darken  thy  last  hour.  /  bore  thy  mur- 
dered wife  to  a  quiet  grave,  and  raised  a 
spirit  to  affright  and  haunt  thee  to  thy 
death.  /  freed  the  Lady  Leonore;  / 
mocked  and  haunted  thee  in  palace,  wood, 
and  cell ;  /  warned  Hugo,  and  betrayed 
thee  to  his  power ;  and  /  brought  down 
this  awful  doom  upon  thee.  As  thou  didst 
refuse  all  mercy  to  thy  victims,  so  shall 
mercy  be  denied  to  thee.  Remorse  and 
dark  despair  shall  wring  thy  heart,  and 
thou  shalt  die  unblessed,  unpitied,  unfor- 
given.  Thy  victims  are  avenged,  and 

Norna's  work  is  done. 

[NORNA  vanishes. 

ROD.  Ha  !  ha !  't  is  gone,  —  yet  stay, 
't  is  Louis'  ghost !  How  darkly  his  eyes 
shine  on  me!  See,  see,  —  the  demons 
gather  round  me  !  How  fast  they  come  ! 
QJd  Npraa  is  &§re,  mattering  b$r 


94      NORNA;  OR,  THE  WITCH'S  CURSE. 

Let  me  go  free  !  Unbind  these  chains ! 
Hugo,  Louis,  Leonore,  Theresa,  —  thou 
art  avenged  ! 

[Falls  dead.     NORNA  glides  in  and  stands  beside 
him. 

[Tableau. 

CURTAIN. 


CAPTIVE    OP    CASTILE; 

OR, 

THE    MOORISH    MAIDEN'S    VOW. 


CHARACTERS. 

BERNARDO Lord  of  Castile. 

ERNEST  I/ESTRANGE   .     .  An  English  Lord. 

HERN  AND  o A  Priest. 

SELIM .  A  Slave. 

ZARA Daughter  to  Bernardo, 


CAPTIVE    OF    CASTILE; 


OB 


THE    MOORISH    MAIDEN'S    VOW 


SCENE  FIRST. 

[A  thick  wood.     Storm  coming  on. 
Enter  ERNEST.] 

ERNEST.  This  summer  sky,  darkened 
by  storm,  is  a  fit  emblem  of  my  life.  0 
happy  England,  why  did  I  leave  thee ; 
why  let  dreams  of  fame  and  honor  win  me 
from  a  home,  to  wander  now  a  lonely  and 
bewildered  fugitive  ?  But  why  do  I  re- 
pine ?  Life,  health,  and  a  brave  heart  yet 
are  mine ;  and  'mid  all  my  peril,  God  may 
send  some  joy  to  cheer  me  on  to  happi^ 
ness  and  honor.  Hist !  a  footstep.  'T  is 
a  light  one,  but  a  Moorish  foe  steals  like 

7 


98  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE; 

a  serpent  on  his  prey.  I  '11  hide  me  here, 
and  if  need  be  I  '11  sell  my  life  as  a  brave 
man  should  [conceals  himself  among  the  trees]. 

[Enter  ZARA,  weeping. 

ZARA.  Heaven  shield  me !  Whither  shall 
I  turn?  Alone  in  this  wild  forest,  where 
may  I  find  a  friend  to  help.  The  dark 
storm  gathers  fast,  and  I  am  shelterless. 
The  fierce  Spaniard  may  be  wandering 
nigh,  and  I  dare  not  call  for  aid.  Mistress 
of  a  hundred  slaves,  here  must  I  perish  for 
one  to  lead  me.  Father,  the  faint  heart 
turns  to  thee  when  earthly  help  is  past; 
hear  and  succor  thy  poor  child  now,  who 
puts  her  trust  in  thee. 

ERNEST  [coming  forward].  Lady,  thy 
prayer  is  heard.  God  hath  not  sent  me 
here  in  vain.  How  may  I  best  serve 
thee? 

ZARA.  Gentle  stranger,  pity  and  pro- 
tect a  hapless  maid  who  puts  her  faith  in 
thee.  Guide  me  from  this  wild  wood,  and 
all  the  thanks  a  grateful  heart  can  give 
are  thine. 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.       99 

ERNEST.  I  ask  no  higher  honor  than 
to  shield  so  fair  a  flower  from  the  storm, 
or  from  rude  hands  that  may  harm  it.. 
But  how  chanced  it,  lady,  that  thou  art 
wandering  thus  unattended  ?  'T  is  unsafe 
for  youth  and  beauty  while  the  Spanish 
army  is  so  near. 

ZARA.  It  was  a  foolish  fancy  led  me 
hither,  and  dearly  am  I  punished.  Jour- 
neying from  a  distant  convent  to  my 
father's  home,  while  my  attendants  rested 
by  a  spring  I  wandered  through  the  wood, 
unthinking  of  the  danger,  till  turning  to 
retrace  my  steps,  I  found  myself  lost  and 
alone.  I  feared  to  call,  and  but  for  thee, 
kind  stranger,  might  have  never  seen  my 
home  again.  Ask  not  my  name,  but  tell 
me  thine,  that  in  my  prayers  I  may  re- 
member one  who  has  so  aided  me. 

ERNEST.  It  were  uncourteous  to  refuse 
thy  bidding,  lady.  Ernest  L'Estrange  is 
the  name  now  honored  by  the  poor  service 
I  may  do  thee.  In  the  Spanish  army  I 
came  hither,  aod  fear  I  have,  seen  the  last 


I 
100  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE; 

of  home  or  friends.  The  Moors  now  seek 
my  life,  and  ere  I  can  rejoin  my  ranks,  I 
may  be  a  slave.  But  the  storm  draws 
nearer.  Let  me  lead  thee  to  some  shelter, 
lady. 

ZARA.  Methinks  I  see  a  glimmer  yon- 
der. Let  us  seek  it,  for  with  thee  I  fear 
no  longer.  I  can  only  give  thee  thanks, 
most  noble  stranger;  yet  a  day  may  come 
when  she  for  whom  thou  dost  now  risk  thy 
life  may  find  a  fit  return,  worthy  thy 
courtesy  to  one  so  helpless  and  forlorn. 

{Exit  ERNEST  and  ZARA 

CURTAIN. 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    101 


SCENE   SECOND. 

[Room  in  the  castle  of  BERNARDO. 
ZARA  alone]. 

ZARA.  'Tis  strange  how  the  thought 
haunts  me  still.  Long  months  have  passed 
since  last  I  saw  that  noble  face,  and  yet 
those  gentle  eyes  look  on  me  !  Ernest ! 
—  't  is  a  sweet  English  name,  and  't  was  a 
noble  English  heart  that  felt  such  tender 
pit}'  for  a  helpless  maid.  Hark  !  my  fath- 
er's step !  He  comes  to  tell  of  victories 
gained,  of  kingdoms  won.  Oh,  would  he 
might  bring  some  word  of  him  I  have  so 
longed  to  see  and  thank  once  more ! 

[Enter  BERNARDO  with  a  casket. 

BER.  Joyful  tidings,  Zara!  Grenada 
is  free.  Here,  love,  are  gems  for  thee ; 
they  have  shone  on  many  a  fair  lady's 
neck,  but  none  more  fair  than  thine.  And 
here  are  things  more  precious  far  to  me 
than  all  their  gold  and  gems,  —  a  goodly 


102  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE; 

list  of  prisoners  taken  in  the  fight,  and 
sent  to  cool  their  Spanish  blood  in  our 
deepest  cells.  Ah,  many  a  proud  name 
is  here,  —  Ferdinand  Navarre,  Carlos  of 
Arragon,  Lord  L'Estrange,  and  Baron  Lisle. 
But,  child,  what  ails  thee? 

ZARA  [starting  up'].  L'Estrange  !  Is  he 
a  prisoner  too?  Hast  thou  read  aright? 
Father,  Father,  it  was  he  who  saved  me 
from  a  bitter  death  in  yonder  forest.  I 
never  told  his  name  lest  it  should  anger 
thee.  For  my  sake  spare  him,  and  let  the 
gratitude  thou  hast  felt  for  that  kind  deed 
soften  thy  heart  to  the  brave  stranger. 

BER.  Nay,  Zara  !  He  is  thy  country's 
foe,  and  must  be  sacrificed  to  save  her 
honor.  'T  was  a  simple  deed  thou  hast 
spoken  of.  What  brave  man  but  would 
save  a  fair  girl  from  storms  or  danger? 
'T  is  a  foolish  thought,  love  ;  let  it  pass. 

ZARA.  Oh,  Father !  I  who  never  bent 
the  knee  to  man  before,  implore  thee  thus 
[kneels].  Be  merciful !  Leave  not  the  Eng- 
lish lord  to  the  dark  and  fearful  doom  that 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.     103 

waits  him.  I  know  too  well  the  life-long 
captivity,  more  terrible  than  death  itself, 
that  is  his  fate.  Oh,  speak !  Say  he  is 
forgiven,  Father! 

BER.  Nay,  what  wild  dream  is  this? 
Listen,  child !  I  tell  thee  he  must  suffer 
the  captivity  he  merits  as  thy  country's 
foe.  He  hath  borne  arms  against  thy 
king,  slain  thy  kindred,  brought  woe  and 
desolation  thro'  the  land  our  fathers  gave 
us.  And  thou  wouldst  plead  for  him ! 
Shame  on  thee  !  Thou  art  no  true  daughter 
of  thy  suffering  country  if  thou  canst 
waste  one  tear  on  those  who  were  well 
lodged  in  our  most  dreary  dungeons.  Call 
thy  pride  to  aid  thee,  Zara,  and  be  worthy 
of  thy  noble  name. 

ZARA.  Father,  thou  hast  often  told  me 
woman's  lot  was  'mid  the  quiet  scenes  of 
home,  and  that  no  thoughts  of  fame  or 
glory  should  lie  within  a  heart  where  only 
gentleness  and  love  should  dwell ;  but  I 
have  learned  to  honor  bravery  and  noble 
deeds,  and  I  would  pledge  my  troth  for  the 


104  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE; 

noble  stranger.  See  the  English  knight, 
and  if  he  win  thee  not  to  gratitude,  thou 
art  not  the  tender  father  who,  through 
long  years,  hath  so  loved  and  cherished 
thy  motherless  child. 

BER.  Nay,  Zara,  nay ;  honor  is  a  sterner 
master  than  a  father's  love.  I  cannot  free 
the  captive  till  the  king  who  hath  sealed 
his  doom  shall  pardon  also.  The  prisoners 
are  men  of  rank,  and  for  thy  country's 
sake  must  die.  Forget  thy  foolish  fancy, 
child,  and  set  thy  young  heart  on  some 
fairer  toys  than  these  false  English  lords. 
Adieu,  love ;  I  must  to  the  council. 

[Exit  BERNARDO. 

ZARA.  Ah,  there  was  a  time  when 
Zara's  lightest  wish  was  gladly  granted. 
This  cruel  war  hath  sadly  changed  my 
father ;  he  hath  forgotten  all  his  gener- 
ous pity  for  suffering  and  sorrow.  But 
my  work  is  yet  undone,  and  the  stranger  is 
a  captive.  He  shall  be  free,  and  I  will  pay 
the  debt  of  gratitude  I  owe  him.  I  will 
brave  my  father's  anger;  but  whom  can 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    105 

I  trust  to  aid  me  ?     Ha !   Selim !      He  is 
old  and  faithful,  and  will   obey  [claps  her 

hands']. 

{Enter  SELIM. 

SELIM.     Your  bidding,  lady. 

ZARA.  Selim,  thou  hast  known  me  from 
my  birth,  and  served  me  well.  I  have 
done  thee  many  a  kindness.  Wilt  thou 
grant  me  one  that  shalt  repay  all  that  I 
have  ever  shown  to  thee? 

SELIM.  Lady,  thou  hast  made  a  slave's 
life  happy  by  thy  care,  and  through  the  long 
years  I  have  served  thee,  hast  never  bid 
me  do  aught  that  was  not  right.  If  my 
poor  services  can  aid  thee  now,  they  are 
most  gladly  thine. 

ZARA.  Listen,  Selim,  while  I  tell  thee 
what  I  seek.  Thou  knowest  an  English 
soldier  saved  and  led  me  from  the  forest 
yonder,  and  thou  knowest  how  my  father 
thanked  and  blessed  the  unknown  friend 
who  had  so  aided  me.  Yet  now,  when  it  is 
in  his  power  to  show  the  gratitude  he  felt, 
he  will  not,  and  has  doomed  the  man  he 


106  CAPTIVE   OF   CASTILE; 

once  longed  to  honor  to  a  lonely  cell  to 
pine  away  a  brave  heart's  life  in  sorrow 
and  captivity.  I  would  show  that  gentle 
stranger  that  a  woman  never  can  forget. 
I  would  free  him.  Thou  hast  the  keys. 
This  is  the  service  I  now  crave  of  thee. 

SELIM.  Lady,  canst  thou  ask  me  to 
betray  the  trust  my  lord,  thy  father,  hath 
been  pleased  to  place  in  me  ?  Ask  any- 
thing but  this,  and  gladly  will  I  obey  thee. 

ZARA.  Ah,  must  I  ever  ask  and  be 
refused?  Selim,  listen!  Thou  hast  a 
daughter ;  she  is  fair  and  young,  and  thou 
hast  often  sighed  that  she  should  be  a 
slave.  If  thou  wilt  aid  me  now,  the  hour 
the  chains  fall  from  the  English  captive's 
limbs,  that  hour  shalt  see  thy  daughter 
free,  and  never  more  a  slave.  If  thou 
wilt  win  this  joy  for  her,  then  grant  my 
prayer,  and  she  is  free. 

SELIM.  Oh,  lady,  lady,  tempt  me  not ! 
much  as  I  love  my  child,  I  love  mine 
honor  more.  I  cannot  aid  thee  to  deceive 
thy  father. 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    107 

ZARA.  Nay,  Seliin,  I  do  not  ask  it  of 
thee.  The  proud  name  my  father  bears 
shall  ne'er  be  stained  by  one  false  deed  of 
mine.  I  ask  thee  but  to  lead  me  to  the 
prisoner's  cell,  that  I  may  offer  freedom, 
and  tell  him  woman's  gratitude  can  never 
fail,  nor  woman's  heart  forget.  And  if  my 
father  ask  thee  aught  of  this,  thou  shalt 
answer  freely.  Tell  him  all,  and  trust  his 
kindness  to  forgive;  a.nd  if  evil  come  / 
will  bear  it  bravely,  —  thou  shalt  not 
suffer.  Thou  shalt  win  thy  fair  child's 
freedom,  and  my  fadeless  thanks. 

SELIM.  Thou  hast  conquered,  lady; 
and  for  the  blessed  gift  that  is  my  reward, 
I  will  brave  all  but  treachery  and  dis- 
honor. Thou  shalt  find  thy  truest  slaves 
in  the  old  man  and  his  daughter  \kneels  and 
gives  the  keys]. 

ZARA.  Thanks,  good  Selim,  thanks; 
thou  shalt  find  a  grateful  friend  in  her 
thou  hast  served  so  well.  I  will  disguise 
me  as  a  female  slave,  and  thou  shalt 
lead  me  to  the  cell.  Now  go  ;  I  will  join 


108  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE? 

thee  anon.  [Exit  SELIM.]  Oh,  Ernest, 
Ernest!  thy  brave  heart  shall  pine  no 
longer.  An  ther  hour,  and  thou  art  free. 
Chains  cannot  bind,  nor  dungeons  hold 
when  woman's  love  and  gratitude  are 
thine. 

[Exit 

CURTAIN. 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    109 


SCENE  THIRD. 

[Dungeon  in  the  castle  of  BERNARDO. 
ERNEST  L'^STRANGE,  chained.} 

ERNEST.  So  end  my  dreams  of  fame 
and  honor !  A  life-long  captive,  or  a  sul- 
tan's slave  are  all  that  fate  has  left  me 
now.  Yet,  'mid  disgrace  and  sorrow,  one 
thought  can  cheer  me  yet,  and  one  sweet 
vision  brighten  e'en  my  dreary  lot.  I 
have  served  my  country  well,  and  won  the 
thanks  of  Spain's  most  lovely  daughter. 
Sweet  lady,  little  does  she  dream  amid  her 
happiness  that  memories  of  her  are  all 
now  left  to  cheer  a  captive's  heart.  But 
hist !  —  a  footstep  on  the  stair.  Perchance 
they  come  to  lead  me  forth  to  new  cap- 
tivity or  death.  [Enter  ZARA,  disguised  as 
a  slave.]  Ah,  who  comes  here  to  cheer 
the  cell  of  the  poor  captive  ? 


110  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE, 

ZARA.  Captive  no  longer,  if  life  and 
liberty  be  dear  to  thee.  Say  but  the 
word,  and  ere  the  sun  sets  thou  shalt  be 
free  amid  the  hills  of  Spain. 

ERNEST.  Who  art  thou,  coming  like  a 
spirit  to  my  lonely  cell,  bringing  hopes  of 
freedom  ?  Tell  me,  what  hath  moved  thee 
to  such  pity  for  an  unknown  stranger  ? 

ZARA.  Not  unknown  to  her  I  serve. 
She  hath  not  forgot  thee,  noble  stranger. 
When  thou  didst  lead  her  from  the  dim 
wood,  she  said  a  day  might  come  when 
she,  so  weak  and  helpless  then,  might  find 
some  fit  reward  for  one  who  risked  his  life 
for  her.  That  hour  hath  come,  and  she 
hath  sent  her  poor  slave  hither,  and  with 
her  thanks  and  blessing  to  speed  thee  on 
thy  way. 

ERNEST.  And  is  she  near,  and  did  she 
send  thee  to  repay  my  simple  deed  with 
one  like  this  ?  Ah,  tell  her  name  !  Where 
doth  she  dwell,  and  whence  the  power  to 
set  me  free  ? 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    Ill 

ZARA.  I  may  not  tell  thee  more  than 
this.  Her  father  is  Bernardo  of  Castile. 
She  heard  thy  name  among  the  captives 
doomed,  and  seeks  to  save  thee ;  for  if 
thou  dost  not  fly,  a  most  cruel  death  awaits 
thee.  Listen  to  her  prayer,  and  cast  these 
chains  away. 

ERNEST.  It  cannot  be.  Much  as  I  love 
my  freedom,  I  love  my  honor  more ;  and  I 
am  bound  until  my  conqueror  shall  give 
back  my  plighted  word,  to  seek  no  free- 
dom till  he  shall  bid  me  go.  Nay,  do  not 
sigh,  kind  friend;  I  am  no  longer  sad. 
From  this  day  forth  captivity  is  sweet. 
Tell  thy  fair  mistress  all  my  thanks  are 
hers;  but  I  may  not  take  the  gift  she 
offers,  for  with  freedom  comes  dishonor, 
and  I  cannot  break  my  word  to  her  stern 
father.  Tell  her  she  hath  made  my  fetters 
light,  this  cell  a  happy  home,  by  the  sweet 
thought  that  she  is  near  and  still  remem- 
bers one  who  looks  upon  the  hour  when 
first  we  met  as  the  happiest  he  hath 
known. 


112  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE; 

ZARA.  If  there  be  power  in  woman's 
gratitude,  thou  shalt  yet  be  free,  and 
with  thine  honor  yet  unstained.  She  will 
not  rest  till  all  the  debt  she  owes  thee 
is  repaid.  Farewell,  and  think  not  Zara 
will  forget  [turns  to  go  ;  her  veil  falls']. 

ERNEST  [starting].  Lady! — and  is  it 
thou  ?  Ah,  leave  me  not !  Let  me  thank 
thee  for  the  generous  kindness  which  has 
made  a  lone  heart  happy  by  the  thought 
that  even  in  this  wild  land  there  is  still 
one  to  remember  the  poor  stranger. 

ZARA.  Pardon  what  may  seem  to  thee 
unmaidenly  and  bold ;  but  thou  wert  in 
danger ;  there  were  none  whom  I  could 
trust.  Gratitude  hath  bid  me  come,  and 
I  am  here.  Again  I  ask,  nay,  I  implore 
thee,  let  me  have  the  joy  of  giving  freedom 
to  one  brave  English  heart.  England  is 
thy  home :  wouldst  thou  not  tread  its 
green  shores  once  again  ?  Are  there  no 
fond  hearts  awaiting  thy  return  ?  Ah,  can 
I  not  tempt  thee  by  all  that  man  most 
loves,  to  fly  ? 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    113 

ERNEST.  Lady,  my  own  heart  pleads 
more  earnestly  than  even  thy  sweet  voice ; 
but  those  kind  eyes  were  better  dimmed 
with  tears  for  my  sad  death  than  be  turned 
coldly  from  me  as  one  who  had  stained 
the  high  name  he  bore.  And  liberty  were 
dearly  purchased  if  I  left  mine  honor  here 
behind.  Ask  me  no  more ;  for  till  thy 
father  sets  me  free,  I  am  his  prisoner  here. 
Ah,  dearest  lady,  thou  hast  made  this  lone 
cell  bright,  and  other  chains  than  these 
now  hold  me  here. 

ZARA.  Then  it  must  be.  Much  as  I 
grieve  for  thy  captivity,  I  shall  honor 
thee  the  more  for  thy  unfailing  truth,  more 
prized  than  freedom,  home,  or  friends. 
And  though  I  cannot  save  thee  now,  thou 
shalt  find  a  Moorish  maiden  true  and  fear- 
less as  thyself.  Farewell !  May  happy 
thoughts  of  home  cheer  this  dark  cell 
till  I  have  won  the  power  to  set  thee 
free. 

[Exit  ZARA. 

8 


114  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE, 

ERNEST.  Liberty  hath  lost  its  charms 
since  thou  art  near  me,  lovely  Zara. 
These  chains  are  nothing  now,  for  the 
fetters  that  thy  beauty,  tenderness,  and 
grace  have  cast  about  my  heart  are 
stronger  far. 

CURTAIN. 


,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    115 


SCENE  FOURTH. 

I 
[ZAEA'S  chamber. 

Enter  BERNARDO.] 

BER.  [unfolding  a  scroll}.  At  length  'tis 
done,  and  here  I  hold  the  doom  of  those 
proud  lords  who  have  so  scorned  my  race. 
The  hour  has  come,  and  Bernardo  is  re- 
venged. What,  ho!  Zara,  where  art 

thou? 

[Enter  ZARA. 

ZARA.  Dear  father,  what  hath  troubled 
thee,  and  how  can  Zara  cheer  and  comfort 
thee? 

BER.  T  is  joy,  not  sorrow,  Zara,  gives 
this  fierce  light  to  mine  eye.  I  have 
hated,  and  am  avenged.  This  one  frail 
scroll  is  dearer  far  to  me  than  all  the 
wealth  of  Spain,  for  'tis  the  death-knell 
of  the  English  lords. 

ZARA.    Must  they  all  die,  my  father  ? 


116  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE; 

BER.  Ay,  Zara,  —  all ;  ere  to-morrow  s 
sun  shall  set  they  will  sleep  forever,  and 
a  good  deed  will  be  well  done.  I  hate 
them,  and  their  paltry  lives  can  ill  repay 
the  sorrow  they  have  wrought. 

ZARA.  Let  me  see  the  fatal  paper. 
[Takes  the  scroll;  aside."]  Yes,  his  name 
is  here.  Ah,  how  strange  that  these  few 
lines  can  doom  brave  hearts  to  such  a 
death!  [Aloud.]  Father,  'tis  a  fearful 
thing  to  hold  such  power  over  human  life. 
Ah,  bid  me  tear  the  scroll,  and  win  for 
thee  the  thanks  of  those  thy  generous 
pity  saves. 

BER.  [seizing  the  paper}.  Not  for  thy  life, 
child  !  Revenge  is  sweet,  and  I  have  waited 
long  for  mine.  The  king  hath  granted 
this ;  were  it  destroyed,  the  captives  might 
escape  ere  I  could  win  another.  Nay, 
Zara,  this  is  dearer  to  me  than  thy  most 
priceless  gems.  To-night  it  shall  be  well 
guarded  'neath  my  pillow.  Go  to  thy 
flowers,  child.  These  things  are  not  for 
thee;  —  thou  art  growing  pale  and  sad. 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    117 

Remember,  Zara,  thou  art  nobly  born, 
and  let  no  foolish  pity  win  thee  to  for- 
get it. 

{Exit  BERNARDO. 

ZARA.  Oh,  Father,  Father,  whom  I  have 
so  loved  and  honored,  now  so  cold,  so  piti- 
less. The  spirit  of  revenge  hath  entered 
thy  kind  heart,  and  spread  an  evil  blight 
o'er  all  the  flowers  that  blossomed  there. 
1  cannot  win  him  back  to  tenderness,  and 
Ernest,  thou  must  perish.  I  cannot  save 
thee,  —  perhaps  't  is  better  so ;  but  oh, 
't  will  be  a  bitter  parting !  [  Weeps."]  Nay, 
nay,  it  shall  not  be !  When  this  wild  hate 
hath  passed,  my  father  will  repent.  Alas  ! 
't  will  be  too  late.  /  will  save  him  from 
that  sorrow  when  he  shall  find  he  hath 
wronged  a  noble  heart,  and  slain  the  friend 
he  should  have  saved.  But  stay !  how 
shall  I  best  weave  my  plot?  That  fatal 
paper,  once  destroyed,  I  will  implore  and 
plead  so  tenderly,  my  father  will  repent ; 
and  ere  another  scroll  can  reach  his  hands, 
I  will  have  won  thy  freedom,  Ernest! 


118  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE: 

This  night  beneath  his  pillow  it  will  be; 
and  I,  like  a  midnight  thief,  must  steal  to 
that  couch,  and  take  it  hence.  Yet,  it 
shall  be  done,  for  it  will  save  thee,  Fa- 
ther, from  a  cruel  deed,  and  gain  a  brave 
heart's  freedom.  Ernest,  't  is  for  thee  ! 
for  thee! 

CUBTAIff. 


< 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    119 


SCENE  FIFTH. 

[  Chamber  in  the  castle. 
BERNARDO  sleeping.    Enter  ZARA.] 

ZARA.  He  sleeps  calmly  as  a  child. 
Why  do  I  tremble  ?  'T  is  a  deed  of  mercy 
I  would  do,  and  thou  wilt  thank  me  that 
I  dared  to  disobey,  and  spare  thee  from 
life-long  regret.  The  paper,  —  yes,  't  is 
here  !  Forgive  me,  Father ;  't  is  to  save 
thee  from  an  evil  deed  thy  child  comes 
stealing  thus  at  dead  of  night  to  take  what 
thou  hast  toiled  so  long  to  win.  Sleep  on ! 
no  dark  dream  can  break  thy  slumber 
now ;  the  spirit  of  revenge  shall  pass  away, 
and  I  will  win  thee  back  to  pity  and  to 
love  once  more.  Now,  Ernest,  thou  art 
saved,  and  ere  to-morrow's  sun  shall  rise 
this  warrant  for  thy  death  shall  be  but 
ashes,  and  my  task  be  done. 

[Exit  ZARA. 

CURTAIN, 


120  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE; 


SCENE  SIXTH. 

[ZARA'S  chamber. 
ZABA  alone.] 

ZARA.  The  long,  sleepless  night  at 
length  hath  passed.  The  paper  is  de- 
stroyed, and  now  nought  remains  but  to 
confess  the  deed,  and  brave  my  father's 

anger. 

{Enter  BERNARDO. 

BER.     Zara ! 

ZARA  [starts].  Why  so  stern,  my  father  ? 
Hath  thy  poor  Zara  angered  thee  ? 

BER.  I  have  trusted  thee  as  few  would 
trust  a  child.  Thou  art  fair  and  gentle, 
and  I  had  thought  true.  Never,  Zara,  till 
now  hast  thou  deceived  me ;  and  if  thou 
wouldst  keep  thy  father's  love  and  trust, 
I  bid  thee  answer  truly.  Didst  thou,  in 
the  dead  of  night  steal  to  my  pillow,  and 
bear  hence  the  paper  I  had  told  thee 
would  be  there  ?  Thy  slave  girl,  Zillah, 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    121 

missed  thee  from  thy  couch,  and  saw  thee 
enter  there.  She  feared  to  follow,  but 
none  other  came  within  my  chamber,  and 
this  morn  the  scroll  is  gone.  Now  answer, 
Zara!  Didst  thou  take  the  warrant,  and 
where  is  it  now? 

ZARA.  Burnt  to  ashes,  and  scattered  to 
the  winds.  I  have  never  stained  my  soul 
with  falsehood,  and  I  will  not  now.  Oh, 
Father!  I  have  loved  and  honored  thee 
through  the  long  years  thou  hast  watched 
above  me.  How  could  I  love  on  when 
thou  hadst  stained  with  blood  that  hand 
that  blessed  me  when  a  child,  how  honor 
when  thou  hadst  repaid  noble  deeds  with 
death  ?  Forgive  me  that  I  plead  for  those 
thou  hast  doomed!  I  alone  am  guilty,  — 
let  thine  anger  fall  on  me  ;  but,  Father,  I 
implore  thee,  leave  this  evil  deed  undone. 


BER.  Thou  canst  plead  well  for  thy 
father's  and  thy  country's  foe.  What 
strange  fancy  hath  possessed  thee,  Zara? 
Thou  hast  never  wept,  tho'  many  a  Chris- 


122  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE i 

tian  knight  hath  pined  and  died  within 
these  walls  ;  and  even  now,  methinks,  thou 
speakest  more  of  gratitude  than  mercy, 
and  seem  strangely  earnest  for  the  English 
lord  who  did  thee  some  small  service  long 
ago.  Speak,  Zara!  wouldst  thou  save 
them  all  ?  Were  I  to  grant  thee  all  their 
lives  save  his,  wouldst  thou  be  content 
to  let  him  die  ? 

ZARA.  Nay,  Father;  but  for  his  tender 
care  thou  wouldst  have  no  daughter  now 
to  stand  before  thee,  pleading  for  the  life 
he  bravely  risked  in  saving  mine.  Oh, 
would  I  had  died  amid  the  forest  leaves 
ere  I  had  brought  such  woe  to  him,  and 
lived  to  lose  my  father's  love  !  [  JF#?/>s.] 

BER.  Listen,  Zara!  Little  as  I  know 
of  woman's  heart,  I  have  learned  to  read 
thine  own ;  and  if  I  err  not,  thou  hast 
dared  to  love  this  stranger.  Ha !  is  it 
so  ?  Girl,  I  command  thee  to  forget  that 
love,  and  leave  him  to  his  fate ! 

ZARA.  Never !  I  will  not  forget  the 
love  that  like  a  bright  star  hath  come  to 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    123 

cheer  my  lonely  heart.  I  will  not  forget 
the  noble  friend  who,  'mid  his  fiercest  foes, 
could  brave  all  dangers  to  restore  an  un- 
known maiden  to  her  home.  And  when 
I  offered  liberty  (for  I  have  disobeyed  and 
dared  to  seek  his  cell),  he  would  not  break 
the  word  he  had  plighted,  Father,  unto 
thee.  He  bade  me  tempt  him  not,  for 
death  were  better  than  dishonor.  Ah, 
canst  thou  doom  him  to  a  felon's  death  ? 
Then  do  it ;  and  the  hour  that  sees  that 
true  heart  cease  to  beat,  that  hour  thou 
hast  lost  the  child  who  would  have  loved 
and  clung  to  thee  through  life. 

BER.  Child,  thou  hast  moved  me 
strangely.  I  would  grant  thy  prayer,  but 
thou  shalt  never  wed  one  of  that  accursed 
race.  I  bear  no  hate  to  the  young  lord, 
save  that  he  is  thy  country's  foe ;  and  if  he 
gains  his  freedom,  he  will  win  thee  too. 
By  Allah  !  it  shall  never  be.  Yet,  listen, 
Zara!  If  I  grant  his  life  wilt  thou  ask 
no  more  ? 

ZARA.     Tis  all  I   ask;    grant  me   but 


124  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE; 

this,  and  I  will  give  thee  all  the  gratitude 
and  love  this  poor  heart  can  bestow. 

BER.  Then  'tis  done.  Yet  hold!  the 
price  that  thou  must  pay  for  this  dear 
boon  is  large.  Thou  must  swear  never  to 
see  him  more  ;  must  banish  love,  nay,  even 
memory  of  that  fatal  hour  when  first  he 
saw  and  saved  thee.  If  thou  wilt  vow  to 
wed  none  but  one  of  thine  own  race,  his 
life  and  liberty  are  thine  to  give.  Speak, 
Zara  !  Wilt  thou  do  all  this  ? 

ZARA.  Oh,  Father,  Father,  anything  but 
this  !  Pity,  gratitude,  and  love  have  bound 
me  to  him,  and  the  fetters  thou  hast  cast 
around  him  are  not  stronger  than  the 
deep  affection  he  hath  wakened  in  my 
heart.  Ah,  why  wilt  thou  not  give  life 
and  liberty  to  him,  and  joy  to  thy  child? 
I  will  not  take  the  vow. 

BER.  Then  his  fate  is  sealed.  Thy 
girl's  heart  is  too  selfish  to  forego  its  own 
joy  for  his  sake.  Thou  dost  not  love 
enough  to  sacrifice  thy  happiness  to  win 
his  freedom.  I  had  thought  more  nobly 
of  thee,  Zara. 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    125 

ZARA.  I  mU  be  worthy  all  thou  mayst 
have  thought  me;  but  thou  canst  little 
know  the  desolation  thou  hast  brought 
me.  Thou  shalt  see  how  deeply  thou  hast 
wronged  me,  and  my  love.  I  will  bear 
all,  suffer  all,  if  it  will  win  the  life  and 
liberty  of  him  I  love  so  deeply  and  so 
well. 

BER.  Would  to  Heaven  thou  hadst 
never  seen  this  English  stranger !  Again, 
and  for  the  last  time,  Zara,  I  ask  thee, 
Wilt  thou  leave  the  captive  to  his  fate, 
and  seek  another  heart  to  love  ? 

ZARA.  Never  !  I  could  mourn  his  death 
with  bitter  tears;  but  oh,  my  love  is 
worthy  a  deeper  sacrifice  !  He  shall  never 
suffer  one  sad  hour  if  I  may  spare  him, 
and  never  know  that  liberty  to  him  will 
bring  such  life-long  sorrow  unto  me. 

BER.  Then  thou  wilt  take  the  vow  I 
bid  thee? 

ZARA.     I  will. 

BER.  Then  swear  by  all  thou  dost  hold 
most  dear,  and  by  thy  mother's  spirit,  to 


126  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE; 

wed  one  only  of  thy  father's  race ;  and 
through  joy  and  sorrow,  thro'  youth  and 
age,  to  keep  thy  vow  unbroken  until 
death. 

ZARA.  I  swear ;  and  may  the  spirit  of 
that  mother  look  in  pity  on  the  child 
whose  love  hath  made  her  life  so  dark 
a  path  to  tread. 

BER.  May  thou  find  comfort,  Zara !  I 
would  have  spared  thee  this,  but  now  it 
cannot  be.  Yet  thy  reward  shall  well 
repay  thee  for  thy  sacrifice.  The  English 
knight  is  free,  and  thou  shalt  restore  him 
unto  life  and  liberty.  May  Allah  bless 

thee,  child ! 

[Exit  BERNARDO. 

ZARA.  T  is  over  !  The  bright  dream  is 
past.  Oh,  Ernest !  few  will  love  thee  as  I 
have  done ;  few  suffer  for  thee  all  that  I 
so  gladly  bear ;  and  none  can  honor  thy  true, 
noble  heart  more  tenderly  than  she  whose 
hard  lot  it  is  to  part  from  thee  forever. 
Still  amid  my  blighted  hopes  one  thought 
can  brighten  my  deep  sorrow,  —  this  sacri- 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.     127 

fice  but  renders  me  more  worthy  of  thee, 
Ernest.  Now  farewell,  love;  my  poor 
heart  may  grieve  for  its  lost  joy,  and  look 
for  comfort  but  in  Heaven. 

CUKTAIN. 


128  CAPTIVE  OF  CASTILE/ 


SCENE  SEVENTH. 

[The  cell. 
ERNEST  chained.    Enter  ZARA.] 

ZARA.  My  lord,  I  seek  thee  with  glad 
tidings. 

ERNEST.  Why  so  pale,  dear  lady  ?  Let 
no  care  for  me  dim  thine  eye,  or  chase  the 
roses  from  thy  cheek.  I  would  not  barter 
this  dark  cell  while  thou  art  here  for  a 
monarch's  fairest  home. 

ZARA.  Thou  wilt  gladly  leave  it  when 
I  tell  thee  thy  captivity  is  o'er,  and  I  am 
here  to  set  thee  free.  I  have  won  thy 
liberty,  and  thou  mayst  fly  with  honor  all 
unstained  ;  for  here  my  father  grants  thy 
pardon,  and  now  bids  thee  go. 

ERNEST.  How  can  I  thank  thee  for  thy 
tenderness  and  pity ;  how  may  I  best  show 
the  gratitude  I  owe  thee  for  the  priceless 
boon  of  freedom  thou  hast  this  day  given  ? 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    129 

ZARA.  Nay,  spare  thy  thanks !  I  have 
but  paid  the  debt  I  owed  thee,  and  't  is 
but  life  for  life.  Now  haste  ;  for  ere  the 
sunset  hour  thou  must  be  beyond  the 
city  gates,  and  on  thy  way  to  home  and 
happiness  [takes  of  his  chains"].  And  now, 
brave  heart,  thou  art  free,  and  Zara's  task 
is  done  [turns  to  go]. 

ERNEST.  Stay,  lady !  thou  hast  loosed 
the  chains  that  bound  these  hands,  but 
oh,  thou  hast  cast  a  stronger  one  around 
my  heart;  and  with  my  liberty  comes  love, 
and  thoughts  of  thee,  thy  beauty,  tender- 
ness, and  all  thou  hast  done  for  me.  Lady, 
thou  hast  cast  away  my  fetters,  but  I  am 
captive  still  [he  kneels].  Ah,  listen,  Zara, 
while  I  tell  thee  of  the  love  that  like  a 
sweet  flower  hath  blossomed  in  this  dreary 
cell,  and  made  e'en  liberty  less  precious 
than  one  word,  one  smile  from  thee. 

ZARA.  I  may  not  listen,  —  't  is  too  late, 
and  't  is  a  sin  for  me  to  hear  thee.  Ah,  ask 
me  not  why,  but  hasten  hence,  and  leave 
me  to  the  fate  thou  canst  not  lighten. 

9 


130  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE; 

ERNEST.  Never !  I  will  not  leave  thee 
till  I  have  won  the  right  to  cheer  and  com- 
fort her  who  has  watched  so  fearlessly  o'er 
me.  Tell  me  all,  and  let  me  share  thy 
sorrow,  Zara. 

ZARA.  Ah,  no !  It  cannot  be !  Thou 
canst  not  break  my  solemn  vow.  Go ! 
leave  me !  Heaven  bless  thee,  and  fare- 
well! 

ERNEST.  A  solemn  vow !  Hast  thou 
bound  thyself  to  win  my  freedom  ?  Then 
never  will  I  leave  this  cell  till  thou  hast 
told  me  all.  I  swear  it,  and  I  will  keep 
the  oath. 

ZARA.  Ernest,  I  implore  thee,  fly,  or  it 
may  be  too  late.  Thou  canst  not  help  me, 
and  I  will  not  tell  thee.  Ah,  leave  me ! 
I  cannot  save  thee  if  thou  tarry  now. 

ERNEST.  Never,  till  thou  hast  told  me 
by  what  noble  sacrifice  thou  hast  saved 
this  worthless  life  of  mine.  Let  me  free 
thee  from  thy  sorrow,  Zara,  or  help  thee 
bear  it.  Thou  hast  won  my  pardon,  and  I 
will  not  go  till  thou  hast  told  me  how. 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    131 

ZARA.  And  wilt  them  promise  to  go 
hence  when  I  have  told  thee  all,  and  let 
me  have  the  joy  of  knowing  thou  art 
safe? 

ERNEST.  I  will  leave  thee,  Zara,  if  thou 
canst  bid  me  go.  Now  tell  me  all  thy 
sorrow,  love,  and  let  me  share  it  with 
thee. 

ZARA.  Ernest,  I  sought  to  save  thee ; 
for  I  had  learned  to  love  the  noble 
stranger  who  had  done  so  kind  a  deed  for 
me.  I  sought  to  win  my  father  back  to 
gratitude.  I  wept  and  sued  in  vain, — 
he  would  not  grant  thy  life,  the  boon  for 
which  I  prayed.  Alone  I  watched  above 
thee,  and  when  the  warrant  for  thy  death 
was  sent,  I  took  it  from  his  pillow  and  de- 
stroyed it.  Thou  wast  safe.  My  father 
charged  me  with  the  deed ;  and  when  I 
told  him  all,  he  bid  me  love  no  more,  and 
leave  thee  to  thy  fate.  He  bid  me  show 
how  strong  my  woman's  heart  could  be, 
and  told  me  if  I  yet  desired  thy  freedom, 
I  might  win  it  if  I  took  a  solemn  vow  to 


132  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE  { 

wed  none  but  of  my  father's  race.  I  took 
the  vow,  and  thou  art  free.  Ah,  no 
more  !  —  and  let  us  part  while  yet  I  have 
the  strength  to  say  farewell. 

ERNEST.  And  is  it  yet  too  late  ?  Canst 
thou  not  take  back  the  vow,  and  yet  be 
mine?  I  cannot  leave  thee,  —  rather  be 
a  captive  here  till  thou  shalt  set  me  free. 
Come,  Zara,  fly  with  me,  and  leave  the 
father  who  would  blight  thy  life  to  satisfy 
a  fierce  revenge.  Ah,  come  and  let  me 
win  thee  back  to  love  and  happiness. 

ZARA.  Ernest,  tempt  me  not.  By  that 
sad  vow  I  swore  by  all  my  future  hopes, 
and  by  my  dead  mother's  spirit,  I  would 
never  listen  to  thy  words  of  love.  And 
stern  and  cruel  tho'  my  father  be,  I  cannot 
leave  him  now.  Deep  and  bitter  though 
this  sorrow  be,  't  is  nobler  far  to  bear  the 
burden  than  to  cast  it  down  and  seek  in 
idle  joys  to  banish  penitence  ;  for  thorns 
would  lie  amid  the  flowers.  Farewell ! 
Forget  me,  and  in  happy  England  find  some 
other  heart  to  gladden  with  thy  love.  Oh, 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    133 

may  she  prove  as  fond  and  faithful  as  thy 
Moorish  Zara. 

ERNEST.  I  will  plead  no  more,  nor  add 
to  that  sad  heart  another  sorrow.  I  will 
be  worthy  such  true  love,  and  though  we 
meet  no  more  on  earth,  in  all  my  wander- 
ings sweet  tender  thoughts  of  thee  shall 
dwell  within  my  heart.  I  will  bear  my 
sorrow  as  a  brave  man  should.  The  life 
thou  hast  saved  and  brightened  by  thy 
love  shall  yet  be  worthy  thee.  Fare- 
well !  May  all  the  blessings  a  devoted 
heart  can  give  rest  on  thee,  dearest. 
Heaven  bless  thee,  and  grant  that  we  shall 

meet  again. 

[Exit. 

ZARA.  Gone,  gone,  forever!  Oh, 
Father,  couldst  thou  know  the  deep  grief 
and  despair  thy  cruelty  has  brought  two 
loving  hearts,  thou  wouldst  relent,  and 
call  them  back  to  happiness.  Where  can 
I  look  for  comfort  now  ?  [  Weeps.~\  I  will 
seek  the  good  priest  who  hath  so  long 
watched  above  the  motherless  child.  I 


134  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE; 

must  find  rest  in  some  kind  heart,  and 
he  will  cheer,  and  teach  me  how  to  suf- 
fer silently.  I  will  seek  old  Hernando's 

cell. 

[Exit  ZAEA. 

CURTAIN. 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    185 


SCENE  EIGHTH. 

[Cell  of  the  priest. 
HERNANDO  reading.     Enter  ZARA.] 

ZARA.  Father,  I  have  come  for  help 
and  counsel.  Wilt  thou  give  it  now  as 
thou  hast  ever  done  to  her  who  comes  to 
learn  of  thee  how  best  to  bear  a  sorrow 
cheerfully  and  well  ? 

HER.  Speak  on,  dear  child.  I  know 
thy  sorrow.  Thou  hast  loved,  and  sacri- 
ficed thy  own  life's  joy  to  win  a  brave 
heart's  freedom.  Thou  hast  done  nobly 
and  well ;  thy  sorrow  will  but  render  thee 
more  worthy  of  the  happiness  thou  hast 
so  truly  won. 

ZARA.  No,  no;  we  shall  never  meet 
again  on  earth.  Ah,  holy  father,  they  who 
told  thee  of  my  love  for  one  who  well 
might  win  the  noblest  heart,  have  told 
thee  but  the  lightest  part  of  the  deep  grief 
that  bears  me  down.  Listen  to  me,  Father, 


136  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE; 

and  then  give  me  comfort  if  thou  canst. 
To  win  my  lover's  freedom,  I  have  sworn 
a  solemn  oath  to  wed  none  but  of  my 
father's  race.  Ernest  came  from  sunny 
England,  and  I  am  the  daughter  of  a 
Moorish  lord.  Alas,  't  is  vain  to  hope  ! 
The  vow  is  given,  and  must  be  kept. 

HER.  Ay,  Zara,  and  it  may  be  kept ; 
but  these  sad  tears  will  change  to  sighs 
of  joy  when  I  have  told  thee  all.  Then 
thou  wilt  bless  the  vow  which  brings  thee 
sorrow  now. 

ZARA.  Oh,  speak  !  Tell  me  what  joy 
canst  thou  give  to  lighten  grief  like  mine ! 
Give  me  not  too  much  hope ;  for  if  it  fail, 
despair  thou  canst  not  banish  will  cast  a 
deeper  gloom  o'er  this  poor  heart.  Now, 
tell  me  all. 

HER.  Calm  thyself,  poor  child  ;  it  will 
be  well  with  thee,  and  thou  shalt  yet 
blossom  in  thy  loveliness  beside  the  heart 
thou  hast  won.  I  will  tell  thee  the  true 
tale  of  thy  fair  mother's  life.  She  loved  and 
wed  a  stranger,  and  thus  won  the  hatred 


OR,  THE  MOORISH"  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    137 

of  her  Moorish  kindred,  who  sought  to  win 
her  for  their  prince's  bride.  And  when 
she  fled  away  with  him  to  whom  her  true 
heart's  love  was  given,  they  vowed  a  fierce 
revenge.  Years  passed  awa}^;  she  drooped 
arid  died.  Thy  father  perished  bravely  on 
the  field  of  battle,  and  left  his  child  to  me. 
I  stood  beside  thy  mother's  dying  bed,  and 
vowed  to  guard  her  babe  till  thou  wert 
safe  among  thy  Moorish  kindred.  I  have 
watched  thee  well,  and  thou  art  worthy  all 
the  happiness  thy  true  heart  hath  won. 
Bernardo  of  Castile  is  but  thy  mother's 
friend  ;  thy  father  was  an  English  lord, 
and  thou  canst  keep  thy  vow,  and  yet  wed 
the  brave  young  Englishman  who  hath 
won  thy  love. 

ZARA.  Heaven  pardon  this  wild,  wilful 
heart  that  should  mourn  the  sorrow  sent, 
when  such  deep  joy  as  this  is  given.  Ah, 
Father,  how  can  I  best  thank  thee  for  the 
blessed  comfort  thou  hast  given  ? 

HER.  Thy  joy,  dear  child,  is  my  re- 
ward. When  thou  art  safe  with  him  thou 


138  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE; 

lovest,  my  task  on  earth  is  done,  and  I 
shall  pass  away  with  happy  thoughts  of 
the  sweet  flower  that  bloomed  beside  the 
old  man's  path  through  life,  and  cheered 
it  with  her  love.  Bless  thee,  my  Zara, 
and  may  the  spirit  of  thy  mother  watch 
above  thee  in  the  happy  home  thou  hast 
gained  by  thy  noble  sacrifice. 

ZARA.  Oh,  Father,  may  the  joy  thy 
words  have  brought  me  brighten  thine 
own  life  as  they  have  mine.  The  blessings 
of  a  happy  heart  be  on  thee.  Farewell, 

Father ! 

[Kneels,  kisses  his  hand.     Exit. 

CURTAIN. 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    139 


SCENE  NINTH. 

[Hall  in  the  castle. 
Enter  ZABA.] 

ZARA.  Selim  said  the  packet  would  be 
here  [takes  the  paper].  Ah,  'tis  from  Er- 
nest! He  is  near  me,  —  we  may  meet 
again  [opens  letter  and  reads]. 

LADY,  —  Thy  father  will  this  night  betray 
the  city  to  the  Spanish  king,  who  hath  promised 
his  life  and  liberty  for  this  treachery.  He  will 
not  keep  his  oath,  and  thy  father  will  be  slain. 
Then  bid  him  fly,  and  save  all  he  most  loves, 
for  no  mercy  will  be  shown  to  those  within  the 
walls  when  once  the  Spanish  army  enters  there. 
Save  thyself.  Heaven  bless  thee. 

ERNEST. 

Brave  and  true  unto  the  last !  0  heart ! 
thou  mayst  well  beat  proudly,  for  thou 
hast  won  a  noble  prize  in  the  love  of 
Ernest  L' Estrange.  Time  flies  ;  this  night 
the  city  is  betrayed,  and  we  must  fly. 


140  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE; 

Bernardo,  lord  of  fair  Castile,  is  a  traitor. 
Ah,  thank  Heaven  he  is  not  my  father ! 
Yet  for  the  love  I  bore  him  as  a  child,  he 
shall  be  saved  ;  and  I  will  cheer  and  com- 
fort him  now  that  the  dark  hour  of  his  life 
has  come. 

[Enter  BERNARDO. 

BER.  Zara,  why  dost  thou  look  thus  on 
me  ?  I  come  to  bid  thee  gather  all  thou 
dost  most  prize,  for  the  army  is  before  the 
city,  and  we  may  be  conquered  ere  to- 
morrow's sun  shall  set. 

ZARA.  Seek  not  to  deceive  me.  I  know 
all ;  and  the  love  I  bore  thee  as  my  father 
is  now  turned  to  pity  and  contempt  for  the 
traitor  who  will  this  night  betray  Castile. 

BER.  Girl,  beware,  lest  thy  wild  folly 
anger  me  too  far !  What  meanest  thou  ? 
Who  has  dared  to  tell  thee  this  ? 

ZARA.  Thou  wouldst  betray,  and  art 
thyself  betrayed  ;  and  were  it  not  for  him 
whom  thou  hast  wronged  and  hunted,  ere 
to-morrow's  dawn  thou  wouldst  be  no 
more,  and  I  a  homeless  wanderer.  Here! 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    141 

read  the  scroll,  and  see  how  well  the  false 
king  keeps  his  word  he  plighted  thee  for 
thy  deed  of  treachery. 

BER.  [reads,  and  drops  the  paper].  Lost! 
lost !  Fool  that  I  was  to  trust  the  prom- 
ise of  a  king !  Disgraced,  dishonored, 
and  betrayed !  Where  find  a  friend  to 
help  me  now  ?  [  WeepsJ] 

ZARA.  Here,  —  in  the  child  who  clings  to 
thee  through  danger,  treachery,  and  death. 
Trust  to  the  love  of  one  whom  once  thou 
loved,  and  who  still  longs  to  win  thee  back 
to  happiness  and  honor. 

BER.  Nay,  child,  I  trust  thee  not.  I  have 
deceived  thee  and  blighted  all  thy  hopes  of 
love.  Thou  canst  not  care  for  the  dishon- 
ored traitor.  Go !  tell  my  guilt  to  those 
I  would  this  night  deliver  up  to  death,  and 
win  a  deep  revenge  for  all  the  wrong  I 
have  done  thee.  I  am  in  thy  power  now. 

ZARA  [tearing  the  paper].  And  thus  do 
I  use  it!  No  eye  shall  ever  read  these 
words  that  do  betray  thee ;  no  tongue  call 
down  dishonor  on  thy  head.  Thy  plot  is 


142  CAPTIVE  OF  CASTILE; 

not  yet  known,  and  ere  to-night  the  gates 
may  be  well  guarded.  Thou  mayst  fly  in 
safety,  and  none  ever  know  the  stain  upon 
thy  name.  Thou  whom  I  once  called 
father,  this  is  my  revenge.  I  know  all 
the  wrong  thou  hast  done  me,  —  the  false 
vow  I  made  to  save  the  life  of  him  I  loved. 
Zara's  pity  and  forgiveness  are  thine,  freely 
given ;  and  her  prayer  is  that  thou  mayst 
find  happiness  in  some  fair  land  where  only 
gentle  thoughts  and  loving  memories  may 
be  thine. 

BEK.  Thou  hast  conquered,  Zara ;  my 
proud  heart  is  won  by  thy  tender  pity 
and  most  generous  pardon  to  one  who 
hath  so  deeply  wronged  thee.  But  I  will 
repay  the  debt  I  owe  thee.  Thou  shalt 
find  again  the  loving  father  and  the  faith- 
ful friend  of  thy  young  life.  Thou  shalt 
know  how  well  Bernardo  can  atone  for  all 
the  sorrow  he  hath  brought  thee. 

ZARA.  And  I  will  be  again  thy  faithful 
child. 

T  is  well  j  and  now,  my  Zara,  ere 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.    143 

the  dawn  of  another  day  we  must  be  far 
beyond  the  city  gates.  Selim  shall  guide 
us,  and  once  free,  together  we  will  seek 
another  and  a  happier  home.  Courage, 
my  child,  and  haste  thee.  I  will  pre- 
pare all  for  our  flight.  Remember,  when  the 
turret  bell  strikes  seven,  we  meet  again. 

[Embraces  ZAKA,  and  exit 

ZARA.  Farewell!  I  will  not  fail  thee. 
Love,  joy,  and  hope  may  fade,  but  duty 
still  remains.  Oh,  Ernest,  couldst  thou 
but  see  thy  own  true  Zara  now !  Wouldst 
thou  could  aid  me  !  \_Enter  ERNEST  dis- 
guised.'] Ah,  who  comes  ?  A  stranger. 
Speak  !  thine  errand ! 

ERNEST  [kneeling,  presents  a  scroll'].  An 
English  knight  without  the  gates  did  bid 
me  seek  thee  with  this  scroll.  May  it 
please  thee,  read. 

ZARA  [opens  and  reads]. 

LADY,  —  Thou  mayst  trust    the   messenger. 
He  will  lead  thee  in  safety  to  one  who  waits 
for  thee.     Delay  not ;   danger  is  around  thee. 
Thine,  ERNEST. 


144  CAPTIVE   OF  CASTILE; 

Ah,  here !  so  near  me !  Hope  springs 
anew  within  my  heart.  Yes,  I  will  go. 
Homeless,  friendless  no  more  !  Happy  Zara ! 
joy  now  awaits  thee.  Yet  stay  !  —  my  prom- 
ise to  Bernardo  !  I  cannot  leave  him  thus 
in  danger,  and  alone.  What  shall  I  do? 
Oh,  Ernest,  where  art  thou  now  ? 

ERNEST  \throwing  off  disguise,  and  'kneeling 
before  her].  Here,  dearest  Zara!  here  at 
thy  feet,  to  offer  thee  a  true  heart's  fond 
devotion.  To  thee  I  owe  life,  liberty,  and 
happiness.  Ah,  let  me  thus  repay  the 
debt  of  gratitude.  Thy  love  shalt  be  my 
bright  reward  ;  my  heart  thy  refuge  from 
all  danger  now.  Wilt  thou  not  trust  me  ? 

ZARA.  Ernest,  thou  knowest  my  heart 
is  thine,  and  that  to  thee  I  trust  with  joy 
my  life  and  happiness.  No  vow  stands 
now  between  us.  I  am  thine. 

ERNEST.  Then  let  us  hence.  All  is 
prepared ;  thy  father  shall  be  saved.  This 
night  shall  see  us  on  our  way  to  liberty ; 
and  in  a  fairer  land  we  may  forget  the 
danger,  sorrow,  and  captivity  that  have 


OR,  THE  MOORISH  MAIDEN'S  VOW.      145 

been   ours.      Come,  dearest,  let   me    lead 
thee. 

ZARA.  I  come  ;  and,  Ernest,  'mid  the  joy 
and  bright  hopes  of  the  future,  let  us  riot 
forget  the  sorrow  and  the  sacrifice  that 
hath  won  for  us  this  happiness ;  and 
mayst  thou  ne'er  regret  the  hour  that 
gave  to  thee  the  love  of  the  Moorish 
maiden,  Zara. 

CURTAIN. 


16 


THE    GREEK    SLAVE. 


CHARACTERS. 

CONST  ANTINE  ....  Prince  betrothed  to  Irene* 

QUEEN  ZELNETH  .     .    .  His  Mother. 

IRENE The  Greek  Princess. 

IONE The  Greek  Slave. 

HELON A  Priest. 

EIENZI  A  Traitor. 


THE   GREEK   SLAVE. 


SCENE  FIRST. 

[Apartment  in  the  palace  of  IRENE. 
IRENE,  reclining  upon  a  divan. ,] 

IRENE.  How  strange  a  fate  is  mine ! 
Young,  fair,  and  highborn,  I  may  not 
choose  on  whom  I  will  bestow  my  love ! 
Betrothed  to  a  prince  whom  I  have  never 
seen  ;  compelled  to  honor  and  obey  one 
whom  my  heart  perchance  can  never  love, 
alas !  alas ! 

And  yet,  they  tell  me  that  Constantine 
is  noble,  brave,  and  good.  What  more 
can  I  desire?  Ah,  if  he  do  but  love  me 
I  shall  be  content  [noise  without ;  she  rises]. 
Hark  !  't  is  his  messenger  approaching  with 
letters  from  the  queen,  his  mother.  I  will 
question  this  ambassador,  and  learn  yet 


150  THE  GREEK  SLAVE. 

more    of   this   young    prince,   my   future 
husband  [seats  herself  uriih  dignity]. 

[Enter  RIENZI.    Kneels,  presenting  a  letter. 

RIENZI.  The  queen,  my  mistress,  sends 
thee  greeting,  lady,  and  this  scroll.  May 
it  please  thee,  read.  I  await  your  pleasure. 

IRENE  [takes  the  letter  and  reads].  My 
lord,  with  a  woman's  curiosity,  I  fain  would 
ask  thee  of  thy  prince,  whose  fate  the  gods 
have  linked  with  mine.  Tell  me,  is  he 
tender,  true,  and  noble  ?  Answer  truly, 
I  do  command  thee. 

RIENZI.  Lady,  he  is  tender  as  a  woman, 
gentle  as  thy  heart  could  wish,  just  and 
brave  as  a  king  should  ever  be.  The 
proudest  lady  in  all  Greece  were  well 
matched  with  our  noble  Constantine. 

IRENE.  And  is  he  fair  to  look  upon  ? 
Paint  me  his  likeness,  if  thou  canst. 

RIENZI.  I  can  but  ill  perform  that 
office.  Thou  must  see  if  thou  wouldst 
rightly  know  him.  The  gods  have  blessed 
him  with  a  fair  and  stately  form,  a  noble 
face,  dark  locks,  and  a  king-like  brow  that 


THE  GREEK  SLAVE.  151 

well  befits  the  crown  that  rests  upon  it. 
This  is  he,  our  brave  young  prince ;  one 
to  honor,  lady  ;  one  to  trust  and  —  love. 

IRENE.  Tis  a  noble  man  thou  hast 
painted.  One  more  question  and  thou 
mayst  retire.  Hath  he  ever  spoken  of  her 
who  is  to  be  his  wife  ?  Nay,  why  do  I 
fear  to  ask  thee  ?  Does  he  love  her  ? 

RIENZI.  Lady,  I  beg  thee  ask  me  not. 
Who  could  fail  to  love  when  once  he  had 
looked  upon  thee  ? 

IRENE.  Thou  canst  not  thus  deceive 
me.  Answer  truly:  What  doth  he  think 
of  this  betrothal  and  approaching  mar- 
riage ? 

RIENZI.  He  hath  not  seen  thee,  prin- 
cess, knows  of  thee  nothing  save  that  thou 
art  beautiful,  and  one  day  to  become  his 
wife.  But  he  is  young,  and  hath  no  wish 
to  wed,  and  even  his  mother's  prayers  have 
failed  to  win  his  free  consent  to  this  most 
cherished  plan,  that  by  uniting  thy  fair 
kingdom  unto  his,  he  can  gain  power  over 
other  lands  and  beautify  our  own. 


152  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 

IRENE.  Perchance  his  heart  is  given 
to  another.  Has  no  fair  Grecian  maiden 
won  the  love  he  cannot  offer  me  ? 

RIENZI.  Nay,  lady.  He  loves  nought 
but  his  mother,  his  subjects,  and  his  native 
land.  But  soon  we  trust,  when  thou  art 
by  his  side,  a  deeper  love  will  wake  within 
him,  and  thou  wilt  be  dearer  than  country, 
home,  or  friends. 

IRENE.  Tis  well ;  thou  mayst  retire.  I 
will  send  answer  by  thee  to  thy  queen,  and 
seek  some  gift  that  may  be  worthy  her 
acceptance.  And  now,  adieu !  [RiENZi 
bows  and  retires.]  He  does  not  love  me, 
then,  and  I  must  wed  a  cold  and  careless 
lord.  And  yet — so  tender  to  all  others, 
he  could  not  be  unkind  to  me  alone. 

Oh,  that  I  could  win  his  love  unknown, 
and  then  when  truly  mine,  to  cast  away 
the  mask,  and  be  myself  again.  Stay ! 
let  me  think.  Ah,  yes;  I  see  a  way. 
Surely  the  gods  have  eent  the  thought !  I 
will  disguise  me  as  a  slave,  and  as  a  gift 
sent  to  his  mother,  I  can  see  and  learn  to 


THE   GREEK  SLAVE.  153 

know  him  well.  I  will  return  with  the 
ambassador,  Rienzi.  I  spake  to  him  of  a 
gift.  He  little  thinks  in  the  veiled  slave 
he  shall  bear  away,  the  princess  is  con- 
cealed. Yes.  Constantine,  as  a  nameless 
girl  will  Irene  win  thy  heart ;  and  when  as 
a  wife  she  stands  beside  thee,  thou  shalt 

love  her  for  herself  alone. 

[Tableau. 

CURTAIN. 


164  THE  GREEK  SLAVE. 


SCENE  SECOND. 

[A  room  in  the  palace  of  THE  QUEEN. 
THE  QUEEN  alone.'] 

QUEEN.  Why  comes  he  not?  They 
told  me  that  our  ambassador  to  the  Prin- 
cess Irene  had  returned,  and  bore  a  gift 
for  me.  Would  that  it  were  a  picture  of 
herself!  They  say  she  is  wondrous  fair; 
and  could  my  wayward  son  but  gaze  upon 
her,  his  heart  might  yet  be  won.  [Enter 
IRENE,  disguised  as  the  slave,  IONE.]  Ah,  a 
stranger!  Who  art  thou? 

[IONE  kneels  and  presents  a  letter. 

QUEEN  [reads  the  letter].  Ah,  welcome ! 
Thy  mistress  tells  me  she  hath  chosen  from 
among  her  train  the  fairest  and  most  faith- 
ful of  her  slaves,  as  a  gift  for  me.  With 
thanks  do  I  accept  thee.  Lift  thy  veil, 
child,  that  I  may  see  how  our  maidens  do 
compare  with  thee.  [!ONE  lifts  her  veil. 
THE  QUEEN  gazes  in  surprise  at  her  beauty .] 


THE   GREEK  SLAVE.  156 

Thou    art    too    beautiful    to   be   a  slave. 
What   is   thy   name  ? 

IONE.     lone ;  may  it  please  thee,  lady. 

QUEEN.  'T  is  a  fit  name  for  one  so  fair ; 
and  thy  country,  maiden? 

IONE.  With  the  princess,  my  kind 
mistress,  have  I  dwelt  for  many  happy 
years ;  and  honored  by  her  choice  now 
offer  my  poor  services  to  thee. 

QUEEN.  •  What  canst  thou  do,  lone  ? 
Thou  art  too  fair  and  delicate  to  bear  the 
heavy  water-urn  or  gather  fruit. 

IONE.  I  can  weave  garlands,  lady ; 
touch  the  harp,  and  sing  sweet  songs ;  can 
bear  thee  wine,  and  tend  thy  flowers.  I 
can  be  true  and  faithful,  and  no  task  will 
be  too  hard  for  thy  grateful  slave,  lone. 

QUEEN.  Thou  shalt  find  a  happy  home 
with  me,  and  never  grieve  for  thy  kind 
mistress.  And  now,  listen  while  1  tell 
thee  what  thy  hardest  task  shall  be.  I 
will  confide  in  thee,  lone,  for  thou  art  no 
common  slave,  but  a  true  and  gentle 
woman  whom  I  can  trust  and  love.  Thou 


156  THE   GREEK   SLAVE. 

hath  heard  thy  lady  is  betrothed  to  my 
most  noble  son ;  and  yet,  I  grieve  to  say, 
he  loves  her  not.  Nay,  in  the  struggle 
'gainst  his  heart,  hath  lost  all  gayety  and 
strength,  and  even  the  name  Irene  will 
chase  the  smile  away.  He  loves  no  other, 
yet  will  not  offer  her  his  hand  when  the 
heart  that  should  go  with  it  feels  no  love 
for  her  who  is  to  be  his  wife.  I  honor 
this  most  noble  feeling ;  yet  could  he 
know  the  beauty  and  the  worth  of  thy 
fair  lady,  he  yet  might  love.  Thou  shalt 
tell  him  this :  all  the  kind  deeds  she  hath 
done,  the  gentle  words  she  hath  spoken ; 
all  her  loveliness  and  truth  thou  shalt  re- 
peat ;  sing  thou  the  songs  she  loved  ;  weave 
round  his  cups  the  flowers  she  wears ;  and 
strive  most  steadfastly  to  gain  a  place  with- 
in his  heart  for  love  and  Lady  Irene.  Canst 
thou,  wilt  thou  do  this,  lone  ? 

IONE.  Dear  lady,  all  that  my  poor  skill 
can  do  shall  yet  be  tried.  I  will  not  rest 
till  he  shall  love  iny  mistress  as  she  longs 
to  be  beloved. 


THE   GREEK  SLAVE.  157 

QUEEN.  If  thou  canst  win  my  son  to 
health  and  happiness  again,  thou  shalt  be 
forever  my  most  loved,  most  trusted  friend. 
The  gods  bless  thee,  child,  and  give  thy 
work  success !  Now  rest  thee  here.  I  will 
come  ere  long  to  lead  thee  to  the  prince. 

[Exit  THE  QUEEN. 

IONE.  All  goes  well ;  and  what  an  easy 
task  is  mine  !  To  minister  to  him  whom  I 
already  love ;  to  sing  to  him,  weave  gar- 
lands for  his  brow,  and  tell  him  of  the 
thoughts  stirring  within  my  heart.  Yes, 
I  most  truly  long  to  see  him  whom  all  love 
and  honor.  The  gods  be  with  me,  and  my 
task  will  soon  be  done. 

CURTAIN. 


\ 


158  THE  GREEK  SLAVE. 


SCENE  THIRD. 

[Another  room  in  the  palace. 
CONSTANTINE,  sad  and  alone.'] 

CON.  Another  day  is  well-nigh  passed, 
and  nearer  draws  the  fate  I  dread.  Why 
must  I  give  up  all  the  bright  dreams  of 
my  youth,  and  wed  a  woman  whom  I 
cannot  love  ? 

They  tell  me  she  is  young  and  fair,  but 
I  seek  more  than  that  in  her  who  is  to  pass 
her  life  beside  me.  Youth  and  beauty 
fade,  but  a  noble  woman's  love  can  never 
die.  Oh;  Irene,  if  thou  couldst  know  how 
hard  a  thing  it  is  to  take  thee,  princess 
though  thou  art !  [Enter  IONE.]  Ah, 
lady,  thou  hast  mistaken  thy  way  !  Let  me 
lead  thee  to  the  queen's  apartments. 

IONE.  Nay,  my  lord ;  I  have  come 
from  her.  She  bid  me  say  it  was  her  will 
that  I,  her  slave,  sbpujd  /strive  with  my 


THE   GREEK  SLAVE.  159 

poor  skill  to  while  away  the  time  till  she 
could  join  thee. 

CON.  Thou,  a  slave  ?  By  the  gods !  me- 
thought  it  was  some  highborn  lady,  —  nay, 
even  the  Princess  Irene  herself,  seeking 
the  queen,  my  mother. 

IONE.  She  was  my  mistress,  and  be- 
stowed me  as  a  gift  upon  the  queen.  This 
scroll  is  from  her  hand.  May  it  please 
thee,  read  it  [kneels  and  presents  letter]. 

CON.  Rise,  fair  maiden  !  I  would  rather 
listen  to  thy  voice.  May  I  ask  thee  to 
touch  yon  harp  ?  I  am  weary,  and  a  gentle 
strain  will  sooth  my  troubled  spirit.  Stay ! 
let  me  place  it  for  thee. 

[Prince  moves  the  harp  and  gazes  upon  IONE 
as  she  sings  and  plays. 

The  wild  birds  sing  in  the  orange  groves, 
And  brightly  bloom  the  flowers ; 

The  fair  earth  smiles  'neath  a  summer  sky 
Through  the  joyous  fleeting  hours. 

But  oh  !  in  the  slave  girl's  lonely  heart, 
Sad  thoughts  and  memories  dwell, 


160  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 

And  tears  fall  fast  as  she  mournfully  sings, 
Home,  dear  home,  farewell ! 

Though  the  chains  they  bind  be  all  of  flowers, 

Where  no  hidden  thorn  may  be, 
Still  the  free  heart  sighs  'neath  its  fragrant  bonds, 

And  pines  for  its  liberty. 
And  sweet,  sad  thoughts  of  the  joy  now  gone, 

In  the  slave  girl's  heart  shall  dwell, 
As  she  mournfully  sings  to  her  sighing  harp, 

Native  land,  native  land,  farewell! 

CON.  'T  is  a  plaintive  song.  Is  it  thine 
own  lot  thou  art  mourning  ?  If  so,  thou 
art  a  slave  no  longer. 

IONE.  Nay,  my  lord.  It  was  one  my 
Lady  Irene  loved,  and  thus  I  thought 
would  please  thee. 

CON.  Then  never  sing  it  more, — speak 
not  her  name  !  Nay,  forgive  me  if  I  pain 
thee.  She  was  thy  mistress,  and  thou  didst 
love  her.  Was  she  kind  to  thee  ?  By 
what  name  shall  I  call  thee? 

TONE.  lone,  your  Highness.  Ah,  yes; 
she  was  too  kind.  She  never  spake  a  cruel 
word,  nor  chid  me  for  my  many  faults. 


THE   GREEK  SLAVE.  161 

Never  can  I  love  another  as  I  loved  my 
gentle  mistress. 

CON.  And  is  she  very  fair  ?  Has  she  no 
pride,  no  passion  or  disdain  to  mar  her 
loveliness  ?  She  is  a  princess ;  is  she  a 
true  and  tender  woman  too  ? 

IONE.  Though  a  princess,  'neath  her 
royal  robes  there  beats  a  warm,  true  heart, 
faithful  and  fond,  longing  to  be  beloved 
and  seeking  to  be  worthy  such  great  joy 
when  it  shall  come.  Thou  ask'st  me  of  her 
beauty.  Painters  place  her  face  among 
their  fairest  works,  and  sculptors  carve  her 
form  in  marble.  Yes,  she  is  beautiful ; 
but  'tis  not  that  thou  wouldst  most  care 
for.  Couldst  thou  only  know  her  !  —  par- 
don, but  I  think  thou  couldst  not  bear 
so  cold  a  heart  within  thy  breast  as 
now. 

CON.  Ah,  do  not  cease !  say  on  !  There 
is  that  in  the  music  of  thy  voice  that 
soothes  and  comforts  me.  Come,  sit  be- 
side me,  fair  lone,  and  I  will  tell  thee  why 

I  do  not  love  thy  princess. 
11 


162  THE  GREEK  SLAVE. 

IONE.     You  do  forget,  my  lord,  I  am  a 
slave ;  I  will  kneel  here. 
[Prince   reclines  upon   a   couch.      IONE   kneeh 
beside  him. 

CON.  Listen !  From  a  boy  I  have  been 
alone;  no  loving  sister  had  I,  no  gentle 
friend,  —  only  cold  councillors  or  humble 
slaves.  My  mother  was  a  queen,  and  'mid 
the  cares  of  State,  tho'  fondly  loving  me, 
her  only  son,  could  find  no  time  to  win  me 
from  my  lonely  life. 

Thus,  tho'  dwelling  'neath  a  palace  roof 
with  every  wish  supplied,  I  longed  most 
fondly  for  a  friend.  And  now,  ere  long, 
a  crown  will  rest  upon  my  head,  a  nation 
bend  before  me  as  their  king.  And  now 
more  earnestly  than  ever  do  I  seek  one 
who  can  share  with  me  the  joys  and  cares 
of  my  high  lot,  —  a  woman  true  and  noble, 
to  bless  me  with  her  love. 

IONE.  And  could  not  the  Princess 
Irene  be  to  thee  all  thou  hast  dreamed  ? 

CON.  I  fear  I  cannot  love  her.  They 
told  me  she  was  beautiful  and  highborn; 


THE   GREEK   SLAVE.  163 

and  when  I  sought  to  learn  yet  more,  'twas 
but  to  find  she  was  a  cold,  proud  woman, 
fit  to  be  a  queen,  but  not  a  loving  wife. 
Thus  I  learned  to  dread  the  hour  when  I 
must  wed.  Yet  't  is  my  mother's  will ;  my 
country's  welfare  calls  for  the  sacrifice,  and 
I  must  yield  myself. 

IONE.  They  who  told  thee  she  was 
proud  and  cold  do  all  speak  falsely.  Proud 
she  is  to  those  who  bow  before  her  but  to 
gain  some  honor  for  themselves,  and  cold 
to  such  as  love  her  for  her  royalty  alone. 
But  if  a  fond  and  faithful  heart,  and  a  soul 
that  finds  its  happiness  in  noble  deeds  can 
make  a  queen,  Irene  is  worthy  of  the 
crown  she  will  wear.  And  now,  if  it 
please  thee,  I  will  seek  the  garden  ;  for 
thy  mother  bid  me  gather  flowers  for  the 
feast.  Adieu,  my  lord!  [She  bows,  her 
veil  falls ;  CONSTANTINE  hands  it  to  her.] 
Nay,  kings  should  not  bend  to  serve  a 
slave,  my  lord. 

CON.  I  do  forget  myself  most  strangely. 
There,  take  thy  veil,  and  leave  me  [turns 


164  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 

aside].  Nay,  forgive  me  if  I  seem  unkind, 
but  I  cannot  treat  thee  as  a  slave.  Come, 
I  will  go  with  thee  to  the  garden  ;  thou 
art  too  fair  to  wander  unprotected  and 
alone.  Come,  lone  [leads  her  ou(\. 

CURTAIN. 


THE   GREEK  SLAVE.  165 


SCENE  FOURTH. 

[  The  gardens  of  the  palace. 
IONE  weaving  a  garland.~\ 

IONE.  The  rose  is  Love's  own  flower, 
and  I  will  place  it  in  the  wreath  I  weave 
for  thee,  0  Constantine !  Would  I  could 
bring  it  to  thy  heart  as  easily !  And  yet, 
methinks,  if  all  goes  on  as  now,  the  slave 
lone  will  ere  long  win  a  prince's  love.  He 
smiles  when  I  approach,  and  sighs  when  I 
would  leave  him ;  listens  to  my  songs,  and 
saves  the  withered  flowers  I  gave  him  days 
ago.  How  gentle  and  how  kind  !  Ah, 
noble  Constantine,  thou  little  thinkest  the 
slave  thou  art  smiling  on  is  the  "  proud, 
cold "  Princess  Irene,  who  will  one  day 
show  thee  what  a  fond,  true  wife  she  will 
be  to  thee  [_sings\. 

[Enter  HELON  ;  kneels  to  IONE. 

IONE.  Helon,  my  father's  friend !  thou 
here  !  Ah,  hush  !  Betray  me  not !  I  am  no 


166  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 

princess  now.     Rise,  I  do  beseech   thee ! 
Kneel  not  to  me. 

HELON.  Dear  lady,  why  this  secrecy  ? 
What  dost  thou  here,  disguised,  in  the 
palace  where  thou  art  soon  to  reign  a 
queen  ? 

IONE.  Hark  !  is  all  still  ?  Yes ;  none 
are  nigh !  Speak  low.  I  '11  tell  thee  all. 
Thou  knowest  the  young  prince  loves  me 
not,  —  nay,  do  not  sigh ;  I  mean  the 
princess,  not  the  slave  lone,  as  I  now  call 
myself.  Well,  I  learned  this,  and  vowed 
to  win  the  heart  he  could  not  give ;  and  so 
in  this  slave's  dress  I  journeyed  hither  with 
Rienzi,  the  ambassador,  as  a  gift  unto  the 
queen. 

Thus,  as  a  poor  and  nameless  slave,  I 
seek  to  win  the  noble  Constantine  to  life 
and  love.  Dost  understand  my  plot,  and 
wilt  thou  aid  me,  Father  Helon? 

HELON.  'T  is  a  strange  thought !  None 
but  a  woman  would  have  planned  it.  Yes, 
my  child,  I  will  aid  thee,  and  thou  yet 
shall  gain  the  happiness  thy  true  heart 


THE   GREEK  SLAVE.  167 

well  deserves.  We  will  talk  of  this  yet 
more  anon.  I  came  hither  to  see  the 
prince.  They  told  me  he  was  pale  and  ill, 
in  sorrow  for  his  hated  lot.  Say,  is  this  so  ? 

I  ONE.  Ah,  yes,  most  true  ;  and  I  am 
cause  of  all  this  sorrow.  Father,  tell  me, 
cannot  I  by  some  great  deed  give  back  his 
health,  and  never  have  the  grief  of  know- 
ing that  he  suffered  because  I  was  his 
bride  ?  How  can  I  avert  this  fate  ?  I  will 
do  all,  bear  all,  if  he  may  be  saved. 

HELON.  Grieve  not,  my  child ;  he  will 
live,  and  learn  to  love  thee  fondly.  The 
cares  of  a  kingdom  are  too  much  for  one 
so  young;  but  he  would  have  happiness 
throughout  his  native  land,  and  toiling  for 
the  good  of  others  he  hath  hidden  his 
sorrow  in  his  own  heart,  and  pined  for 
tenderness  and  love.  Thou  hast  asked 
if  thou  couldst  save  him.  There  is  one 
hope,  if  thou  canst  find  a  brave  friend 
that  fears  no  danger  when  a  good  work 
leads  him  on.  Listen,  my  daughter!  In 
a  deep  and  lonely  glen,  far  beyond  the 


168  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 

palace  gates,  there  grows  an  herb  whose 
magic  power  't  is  said  brings  new  life  and 
strength  to  those  who  wreathe  it  round 
their  head  in  slumber.  Yet  none  dare 
seek  the  spot,  for  spirits  are  said  to  haunt 
the  glen,  and  not  a  slave  in  all  the  palace 
but  grows  pale  at  mention  of  the  place. 
I  am  old  and  feeble,  or  I  had  been  there 
long  ere  this.  And  now,  my  child,  who 
canst  thou  send  ? 

IONE.  I  will  send  one  who  fears  not 
spirit  or  demon ;  one  who  will  gladly  risk 
e'en  life  itself  for  the  brave  young  prince. 

HELON.  Blessed  be  the  hand  that 
gathers,  thrice  blessed  be  he  who  dares 
the  dangers  of  the  way.  Bring  hither 
him  thou  speakest  of.  I  would  see  him. 

IONE.  She  stands  before  thee.  Nay, 
start  not,  Father.  /  will  seek  the  dreaded 
glen  and  gather  there  the  magic  flowers 
that  may  bring  health  to  Constantine  and 
happiness  to  me.  I  will  away;  bless,  and 
let  me  go. 

HELON.     Thou,  a  woman   delicate   and 


THE   GREEK  SLAVE.  169 

fair  !  Nay,  nay,  it  must  not  be,  my  child  ! 
Better  he  should  die  than  thou  shouldst 
come  to  harm.  I  cannot  let  thee  go. 

IONE.  Thou  canst  not  keep  me  now. 
Thou  hast  forgot  I  am  a  slave,  and  none 
may  guess  beneath  this  veil  a  princess  is 
concealed.  I  will  take  my  water-urn,  and 
with  the  other  slaves  pass  to  the  spring 
beyond  the  city  gates;  then  glide  unseen 
into  the  haunted  glen.  Now,  tell  me  how 
looks  the  herb,  that  I  may  know  it. 

HELON.  'T  is  a  small,  green  plant  that 
blossoms  only  by  the  broad,  dark  stream, 
dashing  among  the  rocks  that  fill  the  glen. 
But  let  me  once  again  implore  thee  not  to 
go.  Ah,  fatal  hour  when  first  I  told  thee ! 
'Tis  sending  thee  to  thy  death!  Stay, 
stay,  my  child,  or  let  me  go  with  thee. 

IONE.  It  cannot  be ;  do  thou  remain, 
and  if  I  come  not  back  ere  set  of  sun,  do 
thou  come  forth  to  seek  me.  Tell  Con- 
stantine  I  loved  him,  and  so  farewell.  I 
return  successful,  or  I  return  no  more. 

[lONB  rushes  out. 


170  THE  GREEK  SLAVE. 

HELON.  Thou  brave  and  noble  one  to 
dare  so  much  for  one  who  loves  thee  not ! 
I  '11  go  and  pray  the  gods  to  watch  above 
thee,  and  bring  thee  safely  back. 

[Exit  HELON. 

CURTAIN. 


THE  GREEK  SLAVE.  171 


SCENE  FIFTH. 

[A  terrace  beside  the  palace. 
Enter  CONSTANTINB.] 

CON.  Why  comes  she  not  ?  I  watched 
her  slender  form  when  with  the  other 
slaves  she  went  forth  to  the  fountain  yon- 
der. I  knew  her  by  the  rosy  veil  and 
snow-white  arm  that  bore  the  water-urn. 
The  morning  sun  shone  brightly  on  the 
golden  hair,  and  seemed  more  beautiful 
for  resting  there;  and  now  'tis  nearly 
set,  and  yet  she  comes  not.  Why  should  I 
grieve  because  my  mother's  slave  forgets 
me  ?  Shame  on  thee,  Constantine  !  How 
weak  and  childish  have  I  grown !  This  fever 
gives  no  rest  when  lone  is  not  here  to  sing 
sweet  songs,  and  cheer  the  weary  hours. 
Ah,  she  comes !  [Enter  IONE  urith  basket  of 
flowers.]  Where  hast  thou  been,  lone? 
The  long  day  passed  so  slowly,  and  I 


172  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 

missed  thee  sadly  from  my  side.  But 
thou  art  pale  ;  thy  locks  are  damp!  What 
has  chanced  to  thee?  Speak,  I  beseech 
thee! 

IONE.  Tis  nothing;  calm  thyself,  my 
lord.  I  am  well,  and  bring  thee  from  the 
haunted  glen  the  magic  flowers  whose 
power  I  trust  will  win  thee  health  and 
happiness.  May  it  please  thee  to  accept 
them  [kneels,  and  gives  the  flower i\. 

CON.  Thou,  thou,  lone?  Hast  thou 
been  to  that  fearful  spot,  where  mortal 
foot  hath  feared  to  tread  ?  The  gods 
be  blessed,  thou  art  safe  again !  How 
can  I  thank  thee?  Ah,  why  didst  thou 
risk  so  much  for  my  poor  life  ?  It  were 
not  worth  the  saving  if  thine  were 
lost. 

IONE.  My  lord,  a  loving  nation  looks  to 
thee  for  safety  and  protection.  I  am  but 
a  feeble  woman,  and  none  would  grieve^  if 
I  were  gone ;  none  weep  for  the  friendless 
slave,  lone. 

CON.     Oh,  say  not  thus !     Tears  would 


THE   GREEK  SLAVE.  173 

be  shed  for  thee,  and  one  heart  would 
grieve  for  her  who  risked  so  much  for  him. 
Speak  not  of  death  or  separation,  for  I 
cannot  let  thee  go. 

IONE.  I  will  not  leave  thee  yet,  till  I 
have  won  thy  lost  health  back.  The  old 
priest,  Helon,  bid  me  seek  the  herbs,  and 
bind  them  in  a  garland  for  thy  brow.  If 
thou  wilt  place  it  there,  and  rest  awhile,  I 
am  repaid. 

CON.  If  thy  hand  gave  it,  were  it 
deadly  poison  I  would  place  it  there. 
Now  sing,  lone ;  thy  low  sweet  voice 
will  bring  me  pleasant  dreams,  and  the 
healing  sleep  will  be  the  deeper  with  thy 
music  sounding  in  mine  ears. 

[The  prince   reclines   upon   the   terrace.     IONE 
weaves  a  garland   and  sings. 

Flowers,  sweet  flowers,  I  charge  thee  well, 
O'er  the  brow  where  ye  bloom  cast  a  healing 

spell ; 

From  the  shadowy  glen  where  spirits  dwell, 
J  have  borne  thee  here,  thy  power  to  tell, 


174  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 

Flowers,  pale  flowers,  o'er  the  brow  where  ye 

lie, 
Cast  thy  sweetest  breath  ere  ye  fade  and  die. 


places  the  garland  on  the  head  of  the 
prince,  who  falls  asleep.  She  sits  beside  him 
softly  singing. 


CURTAIN. 


THE  GREEK  SLAVE.  175 


SCENE  SIXTH. 

[THE  QUEEN'S  apartment. 
THE  QUEEN  alone.] 

QUEEN.  Tis  strange  what  power  this 
slave  hath  gained  o'er  Constantine.  She 
hath  won  him  back  to  health  again,  and 
never  have  I  seen  so  gay  a  smile  upon  his 
lips  as  when  she  stood  beside  him  in  the 
moonlight  singing  to  her  harp.  And  yet, 
tho'  well  and  strong  again,  he  takes  no 
interest  in  his  native  land.  He  comes  no 
more  to  council  hall  or  feast,  but  wanders 
'mong  his  flowers  with  lone.  How  can  I 
rouse  him  to  the  danger  that  is  near! 
The  Turkish  sultan  and  his  troops  are  on 
their  way  to  conquer  Greece,  and  he,  my 
Constantine,  who  should  be  arming  for  the 
fight,  sits  weaving  garlands  with  the  lovely 
slave  girl !  Ah,  a  thought  hath  seized  me ! 
Why  cannot  she  who  hath  such  power  o'er 
him  rouse  up  with  noble  words  the  brave 


176  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 

heart  slumbering  in  his  breast?  I  hear 
her  light  step  in  the  hall.  lone,  lone,  — 
come  hither !  I  would  speak  with  thee. 

[Enter  IONE. 

TONE.     Your  pleasure,  dearest  lady. 

QUEEN.  lone,  thou  knowest  how  I  love 
thee  for  the  brave  deeds  thou  hast  done. 
Thou  hast  given  health  unto  my  son,  hath 
won  him  back  to  happiness.  Thou  hast 
conquered  his  aversion  to  the  princess,  and 
he  will  gladly  wed  her  when  the  hour  shall 
come.  Is  it  not  so  ? 

TONE.  Dear  lady,  that  I  cannot  tell 
thee.  He  never  breathes  her  name,  and 
if  I  speak  of  her  as  thou  hast  bid  me,  he 
but  sighs,  and  grows  more  sad  ;  and  yet 
I  trust,  nay,  I  wrell  know  that  when  he 
sees  her  he  will  gladly  give  his  hand  to 
one  who  loves  him  as  the  princess  will. 
Then  do  not  grieve,  but  tell  thy  slave  how 
she  may  serve  thee. 

QUEEN.  Oh,  Tone,  if  thou  couldst  wake 
him  from  the  quiet  dream  that  seems  to 
lie  upon  his  heart.  His  country  is  in 


THE   GREEK  SLAVE.  177 

danger,  and  he  should  be  here  to  counsel 
and  command.  Go,  tell  him  this  in  thine 
own  gentle  words ;  rouse  him  to  his  duty, 
and  thou  shalt  see  how  brave  a  heart  is 
there.  Thou  hast  a  wondrous  power  to 
sadden  or  to  cheer.  Oh,  use  it  well,  and 
win  me  back  my  noble  Constantine  !  Canst 
thou  do  this,  lone  ? 

IONE.  I  will ;  and  strive  most  earnestly 
to  do  thy  bidding.  But  of  what  danger 
didst  thou  speak  ?  -  No  harm  to  him,  I  trust  ? 

QUEEN.  The  Turkish  troops  are  now  on 
their  way  to  carry  woe  and  desolation  into 
Greece,  and  he,  the  prince,  hath  taken  no 
part  in  the  councils.  His  nobles  mourn  at 
his  strange  indifference,  and  yet  he  heeds 
them  not. 

I  know  not  why,  but  some  new  happi- 
ness hath  come  to  him,  and  all  else  is 
forgot.  But  time  is  passing.  I  will  leave 
thee  to  thy  work,  and  if  thou  art  success- 
ful, thou  wilt  have  won  a  queen's  most 
fervent  gratitude.  Adieu,  my  child  ! 

[Exit  THE  QUEEN. 
12 


178  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 

IONE.  Yes,  Constantine,  thy  brave  heart 
shall  awake ;  and  when  thy  country  is  once 
safe  again,  I  '11  come  to  claim  the  love  that 
now  I  feel  is  mine. 

[Exit  IONE. 

1  CURTAIN. 


THE   GREEK  SLAVE.  179 


SCENE  SEVENTH. 

[Apartment  in  the  palace. 
Enter  IONB  with  sword  and  banner.] 

IONE.  Now  may  the  gods  bless  and 
watch  above  thee,  Constantine ;  give 
strength  to  thine  arm,  courage  to  thy 
heart,  and  victory  to  the  cause  for  which 
thou  wilt  venture  all.  Ah,  could  I  but  go 
with  thee,  thy  shield  would  then  be  use- 
less, for  with  mine  own  breast  would  I 
shelter  thee,  and  welcome  there  the  arrows 
meant  for  thee. 

He  comes ;  now  let  me  rouse  him  from 
this  dream,  and  try  my  power  o'er  his 

heart 

[Enter  CONSTANTINE. 

CON.  What  high  thoughts  stirring  in 
thy  heart  hath  brought  the  clear  light  to 
thine  eye,  lone,  the  bright  glow  to  thy 
cheek  ?  What  mean  these  arms  ?  Wouldst 
tbou  go  forth  to  meet  the  Turjcs?  Thy 


180  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 

beauty  would  subdue  them  sooner  than 
the  sword  thou  art  gazing  on  so  earnestly. 

IONE.  Thou  hast  bade  me  speak,  my 
lord,  and  I  obey ;  but  pardon  thy  slave  if 
in  her  wish  to  serve  she  seem  too  bold. 
Thy  mother  and  thy  subjects  wonder  at 
thy  seeming  indifference  when  enemies 
are  nigh.  Thine  army  waits  for  thee  to 
lead  them  forth ;  thy  councillors  sit  silent, 
for  their  prince  is  gone.  While  grief  and 
terror  reign  around,  he  is  wandering  'mong 
his  flowers,  or  listening  to  the  music  of  his 
harp.  Ah,  why  is  this?  What  hath  be- 
fallen thee  ?  Thou  art  no  longer  pale 
and  feeble,  yet  there  seems  a  spell  set  on 
thee.  Ah,  cast  it  off,  and  show  them  that 
thou  hast  no  fear. 

CON.  I  am  no  coward,  lone  ;  but  there 
is  a  spell  upon  me.  'T  is  a  holy  one,  and 
the  chain  that  holds  me  here  I  cannot 
break,  —  for  ifr  is  love.  I  have  lost  the 
joy  I  once  took  in  my  subjects  and  my 
native  land,  and  am  content  to  sit  beside 
thee,  and  listen  to  the  music  of  thy  voice. 


THE   GREEK  SLAVE  181 

IONE.  Then  let  that  voice  arouse  thee. 
Oh,  fling  away  the  chain  that  keeps  thee 
from  thy  duty,  and  be  again  the  noble 
prince  who  thought  but  of  his  people. 
Oh,  let  me  plead  for  those  who  sorrow  for 
thy  care,  and  here  let  me  implore  thee  to 
awaken  from  thy  dream  and  be  thyself 
again  [she  kneels]. 

CON.  Oh,  not  to  me !  Eise,  I  beseech 
thee,  rise  !  Thou  hast  led  me  to  my  duty ; 
I  will  obey  thee. 

IONE.  I  would  have  thee  gird  on  thy 
sword,  and  with  shield  upon  thine  arm, 
and  banner  in  thy  hand,  go  forth  and 
conquer  like  a  king.  Show  those  who 
doubt  thee  that  their  fears  are  false,  —  that, 
thou  art  worthy  of  their  love.  Lead  forth 
thy  troops,  and  save  thy  country  from  the 
woe  that  now  draws  nigh.  Victory  surely 
will  be  theirs  when  thou  shalt  lead  them 
on. 

CON.  Give  me  my  sword,  unfurl  my 
banner,  and  say  farewell.  I  will  return 
victorious,  or  no  more.  Thy  voice  hath 


182  THE  GREEK  SLAVE. 

roused  me  from  my  idle  but  most  lovely 
dream,  and  thy  brave  words  shall  cheer 
me  on  till  I  have  won  the  honor  of  my 
people  back.  Pity  and  forgive  my  fault ; 
and  ah,  remember  in  thy  prayers  one 
who  so  passionately  loves  thee.  Farewell ! 
farewell ! 

[Kisses   her   robe  and  rushes  out.     IONB  sinks 
down. 

CURTAIN. 


THE  GREEK  SLAVE.  183 


SCENE  EIGHTH. 

[On  the  battlements. 
IONB,  watching  the  battle.] 

TONE.  The  battle  rages  fiercely  at  the 
city  gates,  and  the  messengers  are  fearful 
of  defeat.  I  cannot  rest  while  Constantine 
is  in  such  peril.  Let  me  watch  here  and 
pray  for  him.  Ah,  I  can  see  his  white 
plume  waving  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight, 
where  the  blows  fall  heaviest  and  the 
danger  is  most  great.  The  gods  guard 
him  in  this  fearful  hour !  See  how  small 
the  brave  band  grows;  they  falter  and 
retreat.  One  blow  now  bravely  struck 
may  turn  the  tide  of  battle.  It  shall  be 
done !  I  will  arm  the  slaves  now  in  the 
palace,  and  lead  them  on  to  victory  or 
death.  We  may  win  —  and  if  noty  I  shall 
die  in  saving  thee,  Constantine ! 

[IONB  rushes  out. 
CURTAIN. 


184  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 


SCENE  NINTH. 

[The  castle  terrace. 
Enter  CONSTANTINE.] 

CON.  The  victory  is  ours,  and  Greece 
again  is  free,  thanks  to  the  gods,  and  to 
the  brave  unknown  who  led  on  my  slaves, 
and  saved  us  when  all  hope  seemed  gone. 
Who  could  have  been  the  fearless  stranger  ? 
Like  an  avenging  spirit  came  the  myste- 
rious leader,  carrying  terror  and  destruc- 
tion to  the  Turkish  ranks.  My  brave 
troops  rallied  and  we  won  the  day.  Yet 
when  I  sought  him,  he  was  gone,  and  none 
could  tell  me  where.  He  hath  won  my 
deepest  gratitude,  and  the  honor  of  all 
Greece  for  this  brave  deed. 

But  where  is  lone  ?  Why  comes  she  not 
to  bid  me  welcome  home  ?  Ah,  could  she 
know  that  thoughts  of  her  gave  courage 
to  my  heart,  and  strength  to  my  weak 


THE  GREEK  SLAVE.  185 

arm,  and  led  me  on  that  I  might  be 
more  worthy  her !  Ah,  yonder  cornes  the 
stranger;  he  may  not  think  to  see  me 
here.  I  will  step  aside. 
[ CONST ANTINE  retires.  Enter  IONE  in  armor, 
bearing  sword. 

IONE.  The  gods  be  thanked !  the  brave 
young  prince  hath  conquered.  From  the 
flying  Turk  I  won  his  banner  back,  and 
now  my  task  is  done.  I  must  fiing  by  this 
strange  disguise  and  be  myself  again.  I 
must  bind  up  my  wound  and  seek  to  rest, 
for  I  am  faint  and  weary.  Ah,  what  means 
this  sudden  dimness  of  mine  eyes,  this 
faintness  —  can  it  be  death  ?  'T  is  wel- 
come, —  Constantine,  it  is  for  thee  ! 

[loNE/awte;  CONSTANTINE  rushes  in. 

CON.  lone,  lone,  look  up  and  listen  to 
the  blessings  of  my  grateful  heart  for  all 
thou  hast  dared  and  done  for  me.  So 
pale,  so  still !  Ah,  must  she  die  now 
I  have  learned  to  love  so  fervently  and 
well  ?  lone,  awake  ! 

[IONE  rouses. 


186  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 

IONE.  Pardon  this  weakness ;  I  will 
retire,  my  lord. 

CON.  Ah,  do  not  leave  me  till  I  have 
poured  out  my  gratitude.  My  country 
owes  its  liberty  to  thee  :  then  let  me  here 
before  thee  offer  up  my  country's  thanks, 
and  tell  thee  what  my  heart  hath  striven 
to  hide.  Dear  lone,  listen,  I  do  beseech 
thee !  [Kneels.] 

IONE.     My  lord,  remember  Lady  Irene. 

CON.  [starting  up].  Why  comes  she  thus 
between  my  happiness  and  me  ?  Why  did 
she  send  thee  hither  ?  Thou  hast  made  the 
chain  that  binds  her  to  me  heavier  to  be 
borne  ;  the  sorrow  of  my  heart  more  bitter 
still.  Nay,  do  not  weep.  I  will  be  calm. 
Thou  art  pale  and  faint,  lone,  —  lean  thus 
on  me. 

IONE.  Nay,  leave  me  ;  I  cannot  listen 
to  thee.  Go,  I  pray  thee,  go ! 

CON.  Not  till  thou  hast  pardoned  me. 
I  have  made  thee  weep,  and  every  tear 
that  falls  reproaches  me  for  my  rash  words. 
Forget  them,,  and  forgive  me. 


THE  GREEK  SLAVE.  187 

IONE.  Ask  not  forgiveness  of  thy  slave, 
my  lord.  'T  is  I  who  have  offended. 
And  think  not  thus  of  Lady  Irene,  who 
in  her  distant  home  hath  cherished  ten- 
der thoughts  of  one  whom  all  so  honored. 
Think  of  her  grief  when  she  shall  find 
thee  cold  and  careless,  and  shall  learn  that 
he  who  should  most  love  and  cherish, 
deems  her  but  a  burden,  and  hates  the 
wife  whom  he  hath  vowed  to  wed.  Ah, 
think  of  this,  and  smile  no  more  upon 
the  slave  who  may  not  listen  to  her  lord. 

CON.  Thou  art  right,  lone.  I  will 
obey  thee,  and  seek  to  hide  my  sorrow 
within  my  lonely  breast.  Teach  me  to 
love  thy  mistress  as  I  ought,  and  I  will 
sacrifice  each  selfish  wish,  and  be  more 
worthy  thy  forgiveness,  and  a  little  place 
within  thy  heart.  Trust  me,  I  will  speak 
no  more  of  my  unhappy  love,  and  will 
seek  thee  only  when  thine  own  voice  bids 
me  come. 

The  sunlight  of  thy  presence  is  my 
truest  joy,  and  banishment  from  thee  the 


188  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 

punishment  my  wilful  heart  deserves. 
Rest  here,  lone,  and  weep  for  me  no  more. 
I  am  happy  if  thou  wilt  but  smile  again. 
Farewell,  and  may  the  gods  forever  bless 
thee !  [Kisses  her  robe,  and  rushes  out.] 

CURTAIN. 


THE  GREEK  SLAVE.  189 


SCENE  TENTH. 

[A  gallery  in  the  palace. 
Enter  IONB  with  flower*.] 

IONE.  How  desolate  and  dreary  all  hath 
grown  !  The  garden  once  so  bright  hath 
lost  its  beauty  now,  for  Constantine  no 
longer  walks  beside  me.  The  palace 
rooms  seem  sad  and  lonely,  for  his  voice 
no  longer  echoes  there,  and  the  music  of 
his  harp  is  never  heard.  His  pale  face 
haunts  me  through  all  my  waking  hours, 
and  his  mournful  eyes  look  on  me  in  my 
dreams.  But  soon  his  sorrow  all  shall 
cease,  for  nearer  draws  the  day  when  Prin- 
cess Irene  comes  to  claim  the  heart  so 
hardly  won,  and  will  by  constancy  and  love 
so  faithfully  reward.  Hark  !  I  hear  a  step. 
It  is  Bienzi.  How  shall  I  escape,  —  my 
veil  is  in  the  garden !  He  knows  me  and 


190  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 

will  discover  all.     Stay !  this  curtain  shall 
conceal  me  [hides  within  the  drapery\. 

[Enter  RIENZI  stealthily. 

RIENZI.  How !  not  here  ?  I  told  the 
messenger  to  meet  me  in  the  gallery  that 
leads  from  the  garden.  Curses  on  him! 
he  hath  delayed,  and  were  I  discovered  in 
this  part  of  the  palace,  all  might  be  be- 
trayed. I  '11  wait,  and  if  he  comes  not, 
I  '11  bear  the  message  to  the  friends  myself, 
and  tell  the  bold  conspirators  we  meet  to- 
night near  the  haunted  glen,  to  lay  yet 
farther  plans.  We  must  rid  the  kingdom 
of  the  prince,  who  will  be  made  ere  long 
our  king,  for  his  bridal  with  the  Princess 
Irene  draws  more  near.  But  ere  the  royal 
crown  shall  rest  upon  his  brow,  that  head 
shall  be  laid  low.  The  queen  will  soon 
follow  her  young  son,  and  then  we  '11  seize 
the  kingdom  and  rule  it  as  we  will.  Hark! 
methought  I  heard  a  sound.  I  may  be 
watched.  I'll  stay  no  longer,  but  seek 
the  place  myself  [steak  out  and  disappears 
in  the  garden^. 


THE   GREEK  SLAVE.  191 

[lONB  comes  from  her  hiding-place. 
IONE.  Surely  the  gods  have  sent  me  to 
watch  above  thee,  Constantine,  and  save 
thee  from  the  danger  that  surrounds  thee. 
I  will  haste  to  tell  him  all  I  have  dis- 
covered. Yet,  no !  Rienzi  may  escape,  and 
I  can  charge  none  other  with  the  crime. 
They  meet  near  the  haunted  glen,  and 
not  a  slave  would  follow  even  his  brave 
prince  to  that  dark  spot.  How  can  I  aid 
him  to  discover  those  who  seek  to  do  him 
harm  ?  Stay  !  I  will  go  alone.  Once  have 
I  dared  the  dangers  of  the  way  to  save 
thy  life,  Constantine  ;  again  I  '11  tread  the 
fearful  path,  and  watch  the  traitors  at  their 
evil  work.  It  shall  be  done !  I  will  dare 
all,  and  fail  not,  falter  not,  till  thou  who  art 
dearer  to  me  than  life  itself  art  safe  again. 

[JErfc 

CURTAIN. 


192  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 


SCENE  ELEVENTH. 

[A  wood  near  the  haunted  glen.     IONE  shrouded 
in  white  glides  in  and  conceals  herself  among 
the  trees.     Enter  RiENZi.] 

RIENZI  [looking  fearfully  about].  'Tis  a 
wild  and  lonely  spot,  and  't  is  said  strange 
spirits  have  been  seen  to  wander  here. 
Why  come  they  not  ?  'T  is  past  the  hour, 
and  I  who  stand  undaunted  when  the 
fiercest  battle  rages  round  me,  now  tremble 
with  strange  fear  in  this  dim  spot.  Shame 
on  thee,  Rienzi,  there  is  nought  to  fear 
[opens  a  scroll  and  reads'].  Here  are  their 
names,  all  pledged  to  see  the  deed  accom- 
plished. 'Tis  a  goodly  list  and  Constan- 
tine  must  fall  when  foes  like  these  are 
round  him.  [!ONE  appears  within  the  glen. 

Ha !  methought  I  heard  a  sound  !  Nay, 
'twas  my  foolish  fancy.  Spirits,  I  defy 
thee! 


THE  GREEK  SLAVE  193 

IONE.     Beware  !  Beware ! 

KIENZI.  Ye  gods,  what 's  that  ?  It  was  a 
voice.  [Rushes  wildly  towards  the  glen,  sees 
IONE,  drops  scroll  and  dagger. ~\  'T  is  a  spirit ! 
The  gods  preserve  me,  I  will  not  stay! 

[Exit  in  terror.~\ 

[Enter  IONE. 

IONE.  Saved !  saved !  Here  are  the 
traitors'  names,  and  here  Rienzi's  dagger 
to  prove  my  story  true.  Now  hence  with 
all  my  speed,  no  time  is  to  be  lost !  These 
to  thee,  Constantine,  and  joy  unfailing  to 

my  own  fond  heart. 

[Exit  IONE. 

CURTAIN. 


13 


194  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 


SCENE  TWELFTH. 

[Apartment  in  the  palace. 
Enter  CONSTANTINE.] 

CON.  This  little  garland  of  pale,  with- 
ered flowers  is  all  now  left  me  of  lone, 
faded  like  my  own  bright  hopes,  broken 
like  my  own  sad  heart.  Yet  still  I  cherish 
it,  for  her  dear  hand  wove  the  wreath,  and 
her  soft  eyes  smiled  above  the  flowers  as 
she  twined  them  for  my  brow.  Those 
happy  days  are  passed ;  she  comes  no 
more,  but  leaves  me  sorrowing  and  alone. 
And  yet  'tis  better  so.  The  princess 
comes  to  claim  my  hand,  and  then  't  will 
be  a  sin  to  watch  lone,  to  follow  her 
unseen,  and  listen  to  her  voice  when  least 
she  thinks  me  near.  The  gods  give  me 
strength  to  bear  my  trial  worthily,  and 
suffer  silently  the  greatest  sorrow  life  can 
give,  —  that  of  losing  her  [leans  sadly  upon 
the  harp]. 


THE   GREEK  SLAVE.  195 

{Enter  TONE. 

TONE.  My  lord —  He  does  not  hear  me, 
how  bitter  and  how  deep  must  be  his  grief, 
when  the  voice  that  most  he  loves  falls 
thus  unheeded  on  his  ear.  My  lord  — 

CON.  [starting].  And  thou  art  really 
here?  Ah,  Tone,  I  have  longed  for  thee 
most  earnestly.  Ah,  forgive  me  !  In  my 
joy  I  have  disobeyed,  and  told  the  happi- 
ness thy  presence  brings.  What  wouldst 
thou  with  me  ? 

IONE.  My  lord,  I  have  strange  tidings 
for  thine  ear. 

CON.  Oh,  tell  me  not  the  Princess  Irene 
hath  arrived ! 

IONE.  Nay,  't  is  not  that.  I  have 
learned  the  secret  of  a  fearful  plot  against 
thy  life.  Rienzi,  and  a  band  of  other 
traitors,  seek  to  win  thy  throne  and  take 
the  life  of  their  kind  prince. 

CON.  It  cannot  be,  lone  !  They  could 
not  raise  their  hands  'gainst  one  who  hath 
striven  for  their  good.  They  cannot  wish 
the  life  I  would  so  gladly  have  lain  down 


196  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 

to  save  them.  Who  told  thee  this,  lone  ? 
I  cannot  —  no,  I  will  not  think  they  could 
prove  so  ungrateful  unto  their  prince. 

IONE.  I  cannot  doubt  the  truth  of  this, 
my  lord,  for  one  whose  word  I  trust  learned 
it,  and  followed  to  the  haunted  glen,  there 
saw  Rienzi,  whose  guilty  conscience  drove 
him  from  the  place,  leaving  behind  this: 
scroll  whereon  are  all  the  traitors'  names. 
And  this  dagger,  —  'tis  his  own,  as  thou 
mayst  see  [shows  dagger  and  scroll]. 

CON.  I  can  no  longer  doubt ;  but  I 
had  rather  have  felt  the  dagger  in  my 
heart  than  such  a  wound  as  this.  The 
names  are  few ;  I  fear  them  not,  and 
will  ere  long  show  them  a  king  may  par- 
don all  save  treachery  like  this.  But  tell 
the  name  of  thy  brave  friend  who  hath 
discovered  this  deep  treason,  and  let  me 
offer  some  reward  to  one  who  hath  watched 
above  me  with  such  faithful  care. 

IONE.  Nay,  my  lord,  no  gift,  no  thanks 
are  needed.  'T  is  a  true  and  loving  subject, 
who  is  well  rewarded  if  his  king  be  safe. 


THE   GREEK  SLAVE.  197 

CON.  Thou  canst  not  thus  deceive  me. 
It  was  thine  own  true  heart  that  dared  so 
much  to  save  my  life.  Oh,  lone,  why  wilt 
thou  make  me  love  thee  more  by  deeds 
like  these,  —  why  make  the  sorrow  heavier 
to  bear,  the  parting  sadder  still? 

IONE.  Thou  dost  forget,  my  lord,  I 
have  but  done  my  duty.  May  it  please 
thee,  listen  to  a  message  I  bear  thee  from 
the  queen. 

CON.  Say  on.  I  will  gladly  listen  to 
thy  voice  while  yet  I  may. 

IONE.  She  bid  me  tell  thee  that  to- 
morrow, ere  the  sun  shall  set,  the  Princess 
Irene  will  be  here.  [CONSTANTINE  starts 
and  turns  aside.~\  Forgive  me  that  I  pain 
thee,  but  I  must  obey.  Yet,  farther :  thy 
bride  hath  sent  her  statue  as  a  gift  to  thee, 
and  thou  wilt  find  it  in  the  queen's  pavil- 
ion. She  bid  me  say  she  prayed  thee  to 
go  look  upon  it,  and  remember  there  thy 
solemn  vow. 

CON.  Oh,  lone,  could  she  send  none 
but  thee  to  tell  me  this  ?  To  hear  it  from 


198  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 

thy  lips  but  makes  the  tidings  heavier  to 
bear.  Canst  thou  bid  me  go,  and  vow  to 
love  one  whom  I  have  learned  to  hate  ? 
Canst  thou  bid  me  leave  thee  for  a  fate 
like  this? 

IONE.  My  lord,  thou  art  soon  to  be  a 
king ;  then  for  thy  country's  sake,  re- 
member thy  hand  is  plighted  to  the  prin- 
cess, and  let  no  kindly  thoughts  of  a 
humble  slave  keep  thy  heart  from  its 
solemn  duty. 

CON.  I  am  no  king,  —  'tis  I  who  am 
the  slave,  and  thou,  lone,  are  more  to  me 
than  country,  home,  or  friends.  Nay,  do 
not  turn  away,  —  think  only  of  the  love  I 
bear  thee,  and  listen  to  my  prayer. 

IONE.  I  must  not  listen.  Hast  thou  so 
soon  forgot  the  vow  thou  made  that  no 
word  of  love  should  pass  thy  lips?  Re- 
member, 't  is  a  slave  who  stands  before 
thee. 

CON.  Once  more  thou  shalt  listen  to 
me,  lone,  and  then  I  will  be  still  forever. 
Thou  shalt  be  my  judge,  thy  lips  shall 


THE   GREEK  SLAVE.  199 

speak  my  fate.  T  cannot  love  the  prin- 
cess. Wouldst  thou  bid  me  vow  to  cher- 
ish her  while  my  heart  is  wholly  thine  ? 
Wouldst  thou  ask  me  to  pass  through  life 
beside  her  with  a  false  vow  on  my  lips, 
and,  with  words  of  love  I  do  not  feel,  con- 
ceal from  her  the  grief  of  my  divided 
heart?  Must  I  give  up  all  the  bright 
dreams  of  a  happier  lot,  and  feel  that  life 
is  but  a  bitter  struggle,  a  ceaseless  longing 
but  for  thee  ?  Rather  bid  me  to  forget 
the  princess  and  bind  with  Love's  sweet 
chains  the  slave  unto  my  side,  —  my  bride 
forever. 

IONE.  The  slave  lone  can  never  be  thy 
bride,  and  thou  art  bound  by  solemn  vows 
to  wed  the  Princess  Irene.  *  My  duty 
and  thine  honor  are  more  precious  than  a 
poor  slave's  love.  Banish  all  thoughts  of 
her,  and  prove  thyself  a  faithful  lord  unto 
the  wife  who  comes  now  trustingly  to  thee. 
Ask  thine  own  heart  if  life  could  be  a 
bitter  pilgrimage,  when  a  sacrifice  like  this 
had  been  so  nobly  made.  A  tender  wife 


200  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 

beside  thee,  a  mother's  blessing  on  thy 
head,  —  oh,  were  not  this  a  happier  fate 
than  to  enjoy  a  short,  bright  dream  of 
love,  but  to  awake  and  find  thy  heart's 
peace  gone,  thy  happiness  forever  fled  ; 
to  see  the  eyes  that  once  looked  rever- 
ently upon  thee  now  turned  aside,  and 
lips  that  spoke  but  tender  words  now 
whisper  scornfully  of  broken  vows  thou 
wert  not  brave  enough  to  keep.  Forgive 
me,  but  I  cannot  see  the  prince  so  false 
to  his  own  noble  heart.  Cast  off  this  spell ; 
forget  me,  and  Irene  shall  win  thee  back 
to  happiness. 

CON.  Never!  All  her  loveliness  can 
never  banish  the  pure,  undying  love  I  bear 
to  thee.  Oh,  lone,  canst  thou  doubt  its 
truth,  when  I  obey  thee  now  and  prove 
how  great  thy  power  o'er  my  heart  hath 
grown  ?  Oh,  let  the  sacrifice  win  from 
thee  one  gentle  thought,  one  kind  remem- 
brance of  him  whose  life  thou  hast  made 
so  beautiful  for  a  short  hour.  And  in  my 
loneliness,  sweet  memories  of  thee  shall 


THE   GREEK  SLAVE.  201 

cheer  and  gladden,  and  I  will  bear  all  for 
thy  dear  sake.  And  now  farewell.  For- 
give if  I  have  grieved  thee,  and  at  parting 
grant  me  one  token  to  the  silent  love  that 
henceforth  must  lie  unseen  within  rny 
heart.  Farewell,  lone !  [He  kisses  her.] 

IONE  [falling  at  his  feet~].  Ah,  forgive 
me,  —  here  let  me  seek  thy  pardon  for  the 
grief  I  have  brought  thee.  May  all  the 
happiness  that  earth  can  bring  be  ever 
thine.  But,  if  all  others  should  forsake 
thee,  in  thine  hour  of  sorrow  remember 
there  is  one  true  heart  that  cannot  change. 
Oh,  may  the  gods  bless  thee !  'T  is  my 
last  wish,  last  prayer  [weeps].  Farewell ! 

CON.  Stay!  I  would  claim  from  thee 
one  little  word  which  hath  the  power  to 
brighten  e'en  my  sorrow.  I  have  never 
asked  thee,  for  I  thought  my  heart  had 
read  it  in  thine  eyes  that  looked  so  kindly 
on  me  ;  in  the  lips  that  spoke  such  gentle 
words  of  hope.  But  ah  !  tell  rne  now  at 
parting  dost  thou  love  me,  dear  lone  ? 

IONE.     I  do,  most  fondly,  truly  love  thee. 


202  THE  GREEK  SLAVE. 

CON.  lone,  thy  voice  hath  been  a  holy 
spell  to  win  me  to  my  duty.  Thy  love 
shall  keep  me  pure  and  faithful,  till  we 
meet  above.  Farewell ! 

IONE.  Farewell !  —  and  oh,  remember 
how  I  have  loved  thee;  and  may  the 
memory  of  all  I  have  borne  for  thee  win 
thy  pardon  for  any  wrong  I  may  have 
done  thee.  The  princess  will  repay  the 
grief  the  slave  hath  caused  thy  noble 
heart.  Remember  lone,  and  be  true. 

[Exit. 

CON.  Gone,  gone,  now  lost  to  me  for- 
ever !  Remember  thee !  Ah,  how  can  I 
ever  banish  thy  dear  image  from  this  heart 
that  now  hath  grown  so  desolate  ?  I  will 
be  true.  None  shall  ever  know  how  hard  a 
struggle  hath  been  mine,  that  I  might  still 
be  worthy  thee.  Yes,  Irene,  I  will  strive 
to  love  thee,  and  may  the  gods  give  me 
strength ;  but  lone,  lone,  how  can  I  give  thee 
up  !  [Picks  up  a  flower  IONE  has  dropped, 
and  puts  it  in  his  bosom  and  goes  sadly  out.~\ 

CURTAIN. 


THE  GREEK  SLAVE.  203 


SCENE  THIRTEENTH. 

[THE  QUEEN'S  pavilion.     A  dark  curtain 
hangs  before  an  alcove.     Enter  CONSTANTINE.] 

CON.  The  hour  hath  come  when  I  shall 
gaze  upon  the  form  of  her  who  hath  cast 
so  dark  a  shadow  o'er  my  life.  Beautiful 
and  young,  and  blessed  with  all  that  makes 
her  worthy  to  be  loved,  and  yet  I  fear  I 
have  not  taught  my  wilful  heart  the  ten- 
derness I  ought. 

I  fear  to  draw  aside  the  veil  that  hides 
her  from  me,  for  I  cannot  banish  the  sweet 
image  that  forever  floats  before  mine  eyes. 
Tone's  soft  gaze  is  on  me,  and  the  lips  are 
whispering,  "I  love  thee!"  But  I  have 
promised  to  be  true,  —  no  thoughts  of  her 
must  lead  me  now  astray.  My  fate  is  here 
[approaches  the  curtain].  Let  me  gaze  upon 


204  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 

it,  and  think  gently  of  the  wife  so  soon  to 
be  mine  own.  Why  do  I  fear?  Courage, 
my  heart!  [He  draws  aside  the  curtain,  and 
IONE,  veiled,  appears  as  a  statue  upon  its 
pedestal."]  Another  veil  to  raise !  How 
hard  the  simple  deed  hath  grown.  One 
last  sweet  thought  of  thee,  lone,  and  then 
I  will  no  longer  falter.  [He  turns  away  and 
bows  his  head.~\ 

IONE.  Cons  tan  tine !  [He  starts,  and 
gazes  in  wonder  as  the  statue,  casting  aside  the 
veil,  comes  doivn  and  kneels. ~\  Here  at  thy 
feet  kneels  thy  hated  bride,  —  the  "  proud, 
cold  princess,"  asking  thee  to  pardon  all 
the  sorrow  she  hath  given  thee.  Ah,  smile 
upon  me,  and  forget  lone,  who  as  a  slave 
hath  won  thy  love,  but  as  the  princess 
will  repay  it,  —  forgive,  and  love  me 
still ! 

CON.  Thou,  thou  Irene,  —  she  whom 
I  so  feared  to  look  upon  ?  Ah,  no  !  — 
thou  art  lone,  the  gentle  slave.  Say 
am  I  dreaming  ?  Why  art  thou  here  to 
make  another  parting  the  harder  to  be 


THE  GREEK  SLAVE.  205 

borne?     Fling  by  thy  crown  and  be  lone 


again. 


IRENE  [rising].  Listen,  Constantine,  and 
I  will  tell  thee  all.  I  am  Irene.  In  my 
distant  home  I  learned  thou  didst  not  love 
me,  and  I  vowed  to  win  thy  heart  before 
I  claimed  it.  Thus,  unknown,  the  proud 
princess  served  thee  as  a  slave,  and  learned 
to  love  thee  with  a  woman's  fondest  faith. 
I  watched  above  thee  that  no  harm  should 
fall ;  I  cheered  and  gladdened  life  for  thee, 
and  won  the  heart  I  longed  for.  I  knew 
the  sorrow  thou  wouldst  feel,  but  tried  thy 
faith  by  asking  thee  to  sacrifice  thy  love 
and  keep  thine  honor  stainless.  Here  let 
me  offer  up  a  woman's  fondest  trust  and 
most  undying  love.  Wilt  thou  believe, 
and  pardon  mine  offence  ?  [.Kneels  again 
before  Mm.'] 

CON.  Not  at  my  feet,  Irene  !  —  Jt  is  I 
who  should  bend  low  before  thee,  asking 
thy  forgiveness.  For  all  thou  hast  dared 
for  me;  for  every  fearless  deed  ;  for  every 
loving  thought,  all  I  can  lay  before  thee  is 


206  THE   GREEK  SLAVE. 

a  fond  and  faithful  heart,  whose  reverence 
and  love  can  never  die,  but  through  the 
pilgrimage  of  life  shall  be  as  true  and 
tender  as  when  I  gave  it  to  the  slave 
lone  [embraces  IRENE]. 

[Tableau. 

CURTAIN. 


ION. 


NOTE   TO  ION. 

THIS  play  was  found  too  uninteresting  foi 
presentation,  and  was  left  unfinished,  but  is 
here  given  as  a  specimen  of  what  the  young 
authors  considered  very  fine  writing. 

The  drama  was,  of  course,  to  end  well. 
Cleon,  being  free,  at  once  assembles  a  noble  army, 
returns  to  conquer  Mohammed  and  release 
Ion,  who  weds  the  lovely  Zuleika,  becomes 
king,  and  "lives  happily  forever  after." 


CHARACTERS. 

MOHAMMED The  Turk. 

CLEOX Prince  of  Greece. 

lox Son  of  Cleon. 

ADRASTUS A  Priest. 

HAFIZ Turkish  Envoy. 

HASSAN A  Slave. 

MURAD A  Slave. 

ABDALLAH A  Slave. 

IANTHA Wife  of  Cleon. 

ZULEIKA Daughter  of  Mohammed. 

MEDON A  Slave. 

SELIM  .  .  A  Slave. 


14 


ION. 


SCENE   FIRST. 

[Room  in  the  palace  of  CLEON. 
IANTHA  and  ADBASTUS.] 

IANTHA.  How  wearily  the  days  wear 
on,  and  the  heavy  hours  so  fraught  with 
doubt  press  like  death  upon  my  aching 
heart.  To  the  young,  the  fair,  the  happy, 
life  is  a  blissful  dream,  filled  with  bright 
joys ;  for  hope  like  a  star  beams  on  their 
pathway.  But  to  the  grief-worn  heart, 
worn  with  weary  watching,  vexed  with 
sad  cares,  whose  hours  are  filled  with  fear, 
and  ever  thronging  sorrows,  whose  star 
burns  with  a  dim  uncertain  light,  —  oh, 
weary,  weary  is  the  pilgrimage ;  *  joyless 
the  present,  dark  the  future;  and  th$ 
11  &  p'er  the  better. 


212  ION. 

ADRASTUS.  Daughter,  thou  hast  forgot. 
The  radiant  star  may  pale  and  fade,  but 
He  who  giveth  it  its  light  still  liveth. 
Turn  unto  Him.  thy  worn  and  bleeding 
heart,  and  comfortless  thou  shalt  not 
be. 

IANTHA.  Father,  I  cannot.  When  I 
would  pray  for  resignation,  words  fail  me, 
and  my  soul  is  filled  with  murmuring,  while 
round  me  throng  visions  of  battle-fields 
and  death.  Ever  comes  before  me  the 
form  of  Cleon,  —  no  longer  bright  and 
beautiful  as  when,  burning  with  hope  and 
confidence  in  his  high  calling,  he  went 
forth  to  conquer  or  to  die ;  but  fallen, 
bleeding,  perhaps  dead,  or  a  captive  in 
the  dungeon  of  the  pagan,  doomed  to 
waste  in  hopeless  misery  the  long  years 
of  his  manhood.  And  my  boy,  —  what 
will  be  his  fate  ?  Father,  can  I  think  on 
this  and  pray  ? 

ADRASTUS.  *T  is  hard,  lantha  ;  but  to 
His  aid  alone  canst  thou  look  up  to  save 
thy  husband  from  the  horrors  of  a  bloody 


ION.  213 

war.     Call  on  Him,  and  He,  the  merciful, 
will  in  thy  great  need  be  near  thee. 

[Enter  MEDON. 

MEDON.     A  stranger  craveth  audience. 

IANTHA  [rushing  forward}.  A  stranger! 
Cometh  he  from  my  lord  ? 

MEDON.  I  know  not,  lady ;  but  as  a 
messenger  is  he  clad,  and  with  great  haste 
demandeth  speech  of  thee,  saying  he  bore 
tidings  of  great  import. 

IANTHA.  Admit  him  instantly.  [Exit 
MEDON.]  Father,  do  thou  follow,  and 
speed  him  hither. 

ADRASTUS.  I  hasten  to  obey  thee. 
Bear  a  brave  heart,  my  daughter.  I  feel 

that  hope  is  near. 

[Exit  ADRASTUS. 

IANTHA  [joyfully} .  Hope, — thrice  blessed 
word  !  —  wilt  thou  indeed  visit  this  doubting 
heart  once  more,  and  sweeten  the  cup 
thou  hast  so  long  forsaken  ?  {Enter  HAFIZ.] 
Welcome !  comest  thou  from  my  lord  ? 
Thy  tidings  speedily ! 

HAFIZ.     To  the  wife  of  Cleon,  late  com- 


214  ION. 

mander  of  the  rebel  Greeks,  am  I  sent  to 
bear  tidings  of  their  defeat  by  Mohammed, 
now  master  of  all  Greece. 

ADRASTUS.  And  my  lord,  —  the  noble 
Cleon  ? 

HAFIZ.  Betrayed,  defeated,  and  now 
lying  under  sentence  of  immediate  death 
in  the  dungeon  of  the  Sultan. 

IANTHA.  Lost !  lost.!  lost !  \Falls  faint- 
ing on  a  couch] 

[Enter  ADRASTUS. 

ADRASTUS.  Daughter,  look  up !  —  there 
is  yet  hope.  There  is  no  time  for  rest. 
Up !  rouse  thy  brave,  till  now,  uncon- 
quered  heart  and  cast  off  this  spell.  And 

thou,  slave,  hence,  —  away ! 

[Exit  HAFIZ. 

IANTHA  [rousing].  Defeated,  impris- 
oned, condemned,  —  words  unto  one  heart 
fraught  with  such  dire  despair.  Tell  me, 
Father,  oh,  tell  me  truly,  do  I  dream  ? 

[Enter  ION,  who  stands  listening. 

ADRASTUS.  'T  is  no  dream.  The  rough 
soldier  did  but  tell  thee  in  rude  speech,, 


ION.  215 

what  I  was  hastening  in  more  guarded 
words  to  bear  thee.  'T  is  true  ;  thy  lord  is 
in  Mohammed's  power,  a  victim  to  the  per- 
fidy of  pagans,  and  doomed  unto  a  speedy 
death.  Nay,  lantha,  shrink  not,  but  as  a 
soldier's  wife,  glory  in  the  death  of  thy  brave 
knight,  dying  for  his  country ;  and  in  hi& 
martyrdom  take  to  thy  soul  sweet  comfort. 

IANTHA.  Comfort!  Oh,  man,  thou 
little  knowest  woman's  heart !  What  to 
her  is  glory,  when  him  she  loveth  is  torn 
from  her  forever  ?  What  to  the  orphan  is 
the  crown  of  martyrdom,  the  hero's  fame, 
the  praise  of  nations,  the  homage  of  the 
great?  Will  they  give  back  the  noble 
dead,  heal  the  broken  heart,  tear  bitter 
memories  from  the  wounded  soul  to  whom 
earth  is  desolate  ?  Nay,  Father,  nay.  Oh, 
Cleon,  would  I  could  die  with  thee ! 

ADRASTUS.  This  mighty  sorrow  o'er- 
powers  her  reason  and  will  destroy  all 
hope.  Tantha,  daughter,  rouse  thyself; 
let  the  love  thou  dost  bear  thy  lord  now 
aid  in  his  deliverance.  From  the  wealth 


216  ION. 

of  thy  heart's  true  affection,  devise  thou 
some  way  to  save  him. 

IANTHA.  Aid  me,  Father;  I  have  no 
power  of  thought.  I  will  trust  all  to  tkee. 

[ION  approaches. 

ADRASTUS.  I  know  not  what  to  counsel 
lliee  ;  my  life  hath  ill  fitted  me  to  deal 
with  soldiers  and  with  kings.  But  if  some 
messenger  — 

IANTHA.  Nay,  it  will  not  serve.  None 
will  dare  brave  the  anger  of  the  pagan, 
and  death  were  the  doom  of  such  as 
approach  him  other  than  as  a  slave.  And 
yet,  —  perchance  he  might  relent.  Oh, 
were  there  some  true  heart,  fearless  and 
loving,  to  aid  me  now  in  mine  hour  of 
distress  !  Where  can  I  look  for  help  ? 

ION  \coming  forward^ .  Here,  Mother, — 
/  will  seek  the  camp  of  Mohammed. 

IANTHA.  Thou  !  —  my  Ion,  my  only 
one.  No,  no;  it  may  not  be,  —  thy  tender 
youth,  thy  gentle,  untried  spirit.  Tis 
madness  e'en  to  think  on ! 

ION.     Mother,  am  I  not  a  soldier's  son, 


ION.  217 

cradled  'mid  warriors  ?  Runs  not  the  blood 
of  heroes  in  these  veins  ?  Are  not  my 
father's  deeds,  his  bright,  untarnished 
name,  my  proud  inheritance  ?  What 
though  this  tender  form  is  yet  untried  ; 
what  though  these  arms  have  never  borne 
the  knightly  armor  ?  No  victor's  laurels  rest 
on  this  youthful  brow,  and  I  bear  no  hon- 
ored name  among  the  great  and  glorious 
of  our  land;  yet,  Mother,  have  I  not  a 
father,  for  whose  dear  sake  I  may  yet  pur- 
chase that  knighthood  for  which  this  young 
heart  glows  ?  Am  I  not  the  son  of  Cleon  ? 

ADRASTUS.  Yerily  doth  a  spirit  move 
the  boy.  Look  on  him  now,  lantha,  and 
let  no  weak,  unworthy  doubt  of  thine  curb 
the  proud  spirit  that  proves  him  worthy  of 
his  sire. 

IANTHA.  My  son,  my  fair,  young  Ion, 
thou  art  all  now  left  my  widowed  heart. 
How  can  I  bid  thee  go  !  The  barbarous 
pagan  will  doom  thee  to  a  cruel  death. 
How  canst  thou,  an  unknown  youth,  move 
the  fierce  heart  that  hath  slain  thy  sire  ? 


218 

ION.  Fear  not,  Mother;  he  who  calls 
me  to  this  glorious  mission  will  protect 
me.  Shall  I  stand  weeping  while  my 
father  still  breathes  the  air  of  pagan  dun- 
geons; while  the  base  fetters  of  the  infidel 
rest  on  his  limbs,  and  his  brave  followers 
lie  unavenged  in  their  cold,  bloody  graves ; 
while  my  country's  banner,  torn,  dishon- 
ored, is  trampled  in  the  dust,  —  and  he  the 
proud,  the  brave,  till  now  unconquered 
defender  of  that  country's  honor,  lies 
doomed  to  an  ignominious  death  ?  Oh, 
Mother,  bid  me  go  ! 

ADRASTUS.  lantha,  speak  to  the  boy ! 
Let  him  not  say  his  mother  taught  him 
fear. 

IANTHA.  My  Ion,  go,  —  strong  in  thine 
innocence  and  faith,  go  forth  upon  thy 
holy  mission ;  and  surely  He  who  looketh 
ever  with  a  loving  face  on  those  who  put 
their  trust  in  Him,  will  in  His  mercy 
guard  and  guide  thee  [girds  on  his  sivord~\. 
Farewell !  Go,  —  with  thy  mother's  bless- 
ing on  thee ! 


219 

ION.  Now  is  my  heart  filled  all  anew 
with  hope  and  courage,  and  I  go  forth 
trustingly.  Father,  thy  blessing  [kneels 
before  ADRASTUS]  . 

ADRASTUS.  Go,  thou  self-anointed  vic- 
tim on  the  altar  of  thy  love.  Bless  thy 
pure,  faithful  heart ! 

ION  [rising].  Farewell!  Embrace  me, 
Mother. 

IANTHA  [pressing  ION  to  her  breast]. 
Farewell,  my  Ion.  And  if  the  great 
Father  wills  it  that  I  look  not  again  on 
thee  in  life,  into  His  care  do  I  commit 
thee.  Farewell ! 

ION.  Mother,  farewell !  And  if  I  fall, 
mourn  not,  but  glory  that  I  died  as  best 
became  the  son  of  Cleon  [draws  his  sword']. 
And  now  leap  forth,  my  sword  !  —  hence- 
forth is  there  no  rest  nor  honor  till  we 
have  conquered.  Father,  I  come,  I  come  ! 
[IoN  rushes  out ;  IANTHA  rushes  to  the  win- 
dow, tears  off  her  veil  and  waves  it  to  ION.] 

CURTAIN. 


220  ION. 


SCENE   SECOND. 

[  Tent  of  MOHAMMED  ;    maps   and  arms   lying 
about.     MOHAMMED  and  HAFIZ.] 

MOH'D.  And  spake  they  no  word  of  ran- 
som or  of  hostage  ? 

HAFIZ.  None,  sire.  The  lady  lay  as 
one  struck  dead  ;  and  the  priest,  foul 
Christian  dog,  bade  me  go  hence,  and 
tarry  not. 

MOH'D.  And  held  you  no  speech  with 
those  about  the  princess.  Sure,  there  were 
some  to  listen  to  thy  master's  word. 

HAFIZ.  Great  master,  I  sought  in  vain 
to  set  before  them  the  royal  will.  At  first 
it  were  as  though  a  spell  had  fallen  on 
them.  Nay,  some  did  turn  aside  and 
weep,  rending  their  hair,  as  though  all 
hope  were  lost.  Then,  when  I  strove  to 
win  them  to  some  counsel,  they  woke  to 
such  an  uproar,  cursing  thy  perfidy,  and 
vowing  most  dire  and  speedy  vengeance 


ION.  221 

on  thee,  clashing  their  weapons  and  crying, 
"  Down  with  the  pagan  dogs ! "  Then, 
drawing  forth  their  lances  with  fierce 
oaths,  they  drove  me  from  the  gates  in 
such  warlike  manner,  I  could  but  strive 
with  haste  to  make  good  mine  escape,  and 
without  rest  have  I  journeyed  hither  to 
bring  thee  tidings. 

MOH'D.  By  the  prophet !  and  is  it  thus 
they  serve  the  royal  messenger.  But  they 
shall  rue  it  dearly.  Cleon  shall  die.  To- 
morrow's sun  shall  never  shine  for  him. 
The  proud  Greeks  shall  learn  to  dread 
Mohammed's  ire.  and  bend  their  haughty 
heads  before  him  in  the  dust.  I  offer 
ransom,  and  they  will  not  harken.  I  send 
them  honorable  terms,  and  they  thrust  my 
messenger  rudely  from  their  gates.  The}' 
have  dared  to  brave  me,  —  they  shall  feel 
my  power  ! 

HAFIZ.  Mighty  Mohammed,  if  thy  poor 
slave  might  offer  counsel,  were  it  not  wise 
to  tarry  till  the  Greeks  on  cooler  thought 
shall  seek  thee  with  some  treaty  which 


222  702V. 

may  avail  thee  better  than  such  hasty  ven- 
geance. How  much  more  worthy  were  a 
heavy  ransom  than  the  life  of  a  single 
miserable  prince. 

MOH'D.  Peace,  slave !  I  have  said 
Cleon  shall  die,  and,  by  Allah !  so  I  have 
not  word  from  these  rebel  dogs  ere  three 
days  shall  wear  away,  his  body  swung  from 
the  battlements  shall  bear  them  tidings  of 
Mohammed's  power.  [Enter  SELIM.]  What 
hath  befallen,  Selim,  that  thou  comest  in 
such  haste? 

SELIM.  Most  mighty  king,  there  waits 
without  a  youth,  demanding  speech  of 
thee. 

MOH'D.  A  youth !  Who  may  he  be, 
and  what  seeks  he  with  us  ? 

SELIM.  Most  gracious  sire,  I  know  not. 
Our  guard  surprised  him  wandering  with- 
out the  camp,  —  alone,  unarmed,  save  with 
a  single  sword  ;  young,  and  I  think  a 
Greek.  Abdallah  seized  him  as  a  spy,  and 
led  him  hither  to  await  thy  royal  will, 
dptfy  refuse  al}  question,  demanding  t0 


ION.  223 

be  led  before  thee,  where  he  will  unfold 
his  errand. 

MOH'D.  A  Greek!  Bring  him  before 
us,  an  he  prove  a  spy  .he  shall  hang 
before  the  day  waxeth  older  by  an  hour. 
Hence,  —  bring  him  hither !  [Exit  SELIM.] 
By  Allah  !  my  proud  foes  have  deigned  to 
send  us  messengers,  and  seek  to  win  the 
favor  so  rudely  scorned.  They  know  not 
Mohammed,  and,  so  they  humble  not  them- 
selves, will  sue  in  vain. 

[  Enter  SELIM,  dragging  ION. 

SELIM.  Your  Mightiness  doth  behold 
the  youth.  [To  ION,  who  stands  proudly.] 
Kneel,  slave ! 

ION.    I  kneel  not  unto  tyrants. 

MOH'D.  How,  bold  stripling!  Weigh 
with  more  care  thy  speech,  and  forget  not 
before  whom  thou  dost  stand.  [To  SELIM.] 
Go,  slave,  and  stand  without;  see  that 
none  enter  here  unbidden.  [Exit  SELIM.] 
Speak,  boy !  Who  art  thou,  and  why  dost 
thou  seek  thus  fearlessly  the  presence  of 
thy  foe  ?  —  and  beware  thou  speakest  truly 


224 

if  it  is  as  a  friend  to  treat  in  honorable 
fashion,  or  as  a  spy,  thou  now  standest 
before  us. 

ION.  I  am  a  Greek,  son  to  the  noble 
Cleon,  now  thy  captive ;  I  seek  his  rescue. 

MOH'D.  Son  to  Cleon !  Now,  by  the 
Prophet,  't  is  wondrous  strange  !  And  thou 
hast  ventured  alone  into  the  camp  amid 
thy  deadly  foes  ?  Speak,  boy,  —  thine 
errand ! 

ION.  To  offer  hostage ;  to  treat  with 
Mohammed  for  a  father's  life  ;  to  move  to 
pity  or  to  justice  the  heart  that  hath 
doomed  a  noble  soldier  unto  an  unjust 
death. 

MOH'D.  And  where,  my  bold  prince,  are 
thy  followers,  thy  slaves,  thy  royal  train  ? 

ION.  On  yonder  plain,  cold  in  their 
graves. 

MOH'D.  Hast  thou  brought  ransom? 
Where  is  thy  gold  ? 

ION.  In  the  coffers  of  the  Turkish 
Mohammed,  plundered  from  his  slaugh- 
tered foes. 


ray.  225 

MOH'D.  Thou  spakest  of  hostage,  —  I 
see  it  not. 

ION.     'T  is  here,  —  the  son  of  Cleon. 

MOH'D.  Thou  !  and  thinkest  thou  thy 
young,  worthless  life  were  a  fit  hostage  for 
the  leader  of  a  rebel  band,  the  enemy  of 
all  true  followers,  whose  capture  hath  cost 
blood  and  slaves  and  gold  ?  By  Allah ! 
boy,  thou  must  name  a  higher  price  to 
win  the  life  thou  doth  seek. 

ION.  I  have  nought  else  to  offer.  Thy 
hand  hath  rent  from  me  friends,  followers, 
gold,  a  sire.  But  if  this  young  life  hath 
any  worth  to  thee,  if  these  arms  may  toil 
for  thee,  this  form  bear  burdens  to  thy 
royalty,  take  them,  —  take  all,  0  king,  but 
render  unto  me  that  life  without  which 
Greece  is  lost. 

MOH'D.  Peace !  Thy  speech  is  vain  ; 
thy  life  is  nought  to  me. 

ION.  I  will  serve  thee  as  a  slave ; 
in  all  things  do  thy  bidding,  —  faithful, 
unwearied,  unrepining.  Grant  but  my 
boon,  and  monarch  shall  never  have  a  truer 

15 


226  ION. 

vassal  than  I  will  be  to  thee.  Great 
Mohammed,  let  me  not  plead  in  vain. 

MOH'D.     Peace,    I  say ;  anger  me  not. 

ION.  0  king,  hast  thou  no  heart  ? 
Think  of  the  ruined  home,  the  mourning 
people,  the  land  made  desolate  by  thee  ; 
of  her  who  now  counts  the  weary  hours 
for  tidings  of  those  dear  to  her, —  tidings 
fraught  with  life  or  death  as  thou  shalt 
decree ;  of  the  son  by  thee  doomed  to 
see  his  honored  sire,  hero  of  a  hundred 
battles  dragged  like  a  slave  unto  a  shame- 
ful death.  As  thou  wilt  have  mercy 
shown  to  thee,  that  mercy  show  thou 
unto  me.  Oh,  say  to  me,  "Thy  father 
lives !  " 

MOH'D.     Away !     I  will  not  listen. 

ION.  Nay,  I  will  kneel  to  thee.  I  who 
never  knelt  to  man  before,  now  implore 
thee  with  earnest  supplication.  'T  is  for  a 
father's  life. 

MOH'D.  Kneel  not  to  me,  —  it  is  in 
vain.  Thy  father  is  my  captive,  my  dead- 
liest foe,  whom  I  hate,  and  curse,  —  ay, 


ION.  227 

and  will  slay.  Boy,  dost  thou  know  to 
whom  thou  dost  bow  ? 

ION  [rising  proudly].  To  the  pagan  Mo- 
hammed,—  he  who  with  murderous  hand 
hath  bathed  in  blood  the  smiling  plains  of 
Greece  ;  profaned  her  altars,  enslaved  her 
people,  and  filled  the  land  with  widows' 
tears  and  orphans'  cries ;  he  who  by  per- 
fidy makes  captives  of  his  foes,  refusing 
hostage  and  scorning  honorable  treaty ; 
turns  from  all  supplicants,  closes  his  heart 
to  mercy,  and  tramples  under  foot  all  pity 
and  all  justice,  —  the  murderer,  and  the 
tyrant.  Yes,  king,  I  know  to  whom  I 
plead. 

MOH'D.  [in  great  anger].  Ho,  without 
there,  guards  !  — Selim  !  [Enter  SELIM  and 
soldiers.]  Away  with  the  prisoner!  Bind 
him  fast ;  see  he  escape  not.  Mohammed 
stands  not  to  be  braved  by  a  beardless  boy ! 
Hence  !  [Guards  approach  with  chains.] 

ION.  Lay  not  hands  upon  me, —  I  am 
no  slave !  One  more  appeal :  May  a  son 
look  once  more  upon  bis  father  ere  death 


228  ION. 

parts  them  forever?  May  I  but  for  an 
hour  speak  with  Cleon  ? 

MOH'D.  Once  more  thou  mayst  look 
upon  the  rebel  Greek.  When  he  hangs 
from  yonder  battlement  thou  mayst  gaze 
unbidden  as  thou  will.  Away !  With 
to-morrow's  sun,  he  dies. 

ION.  So  soon,  0  king !  —  nay,  the  son 
of  Cleon  kneels  not  to  thee  again  [turns 
to  go~\. 

MOH'D.  Stay, — yield  up  thy  sword! 
Bend  thy  proud  knee,  and  surrender  unto 
me  the  arms  thou  art  unworthy  now  to 
bear. 

ION  [drawing  his  sword'].  This,  my  sword, 
girded  on  by  a  mother's  hand,  pledged  to 
the  deliverance  of  a  captive  sire,  dedicated 
to  the  service  of  my  country,  unstained, 
unconquered,  —  thus  do  I  surrender  thee. 
[He  breaks  the  sword,  and  flings  it>  down.~\ 

MOH'D.  Again  dost  thou  brave  me ! 
Away  with  the  rebel!  Bind  him  hand 
and  foot.  He  shall  learn  what  it  is  to  be, 
Mohammed's  slave.  Hence,  I  say  ! 


ION.  229 

ION.  I  am  thy  captive,  but  thy  slave  — 
never  !  Thou  mayst  chain  my  limbs,  thou 
canst  not  bind  my  freeborn  soul !  Lead 
on,  —  I  follow. 

[Exit  ION  and  guard* 

CURTAIN. 


380 


SCENE  THIRD. 

[Tent  of  ZULEIKA  j  guitar,  ottoman,  etc.] 

ZULEIKA  [pacing  up  and  down].  Night 
draweth  on  apace,  and  ever  nearer  comes 
the  fatal  hour.  With  to-morrow's  dawn 
all  hope  is  o'er,  for  Mohammed  hath  sworn 
the  Greek  shall  die,  and  when  was  he  ere 
known  to  fail  in  his  dread  purpose  ?  In 
vain  have  I  wept  before  him,  imploring  him 
to  have  some  mercy  ;  in  vain  have  I 
sought  with  golden  promises  to  move  the 
stony-hearted  Hafiz,  —  all,  all  hath  failed, 
and  I  am  in  despair.  And  that  brave 
youth,  his  true  heart  filled  with  love's  pure 
devotion,  seeking  by  the  sacrifice  of  his 
own  life  to  save  a  father!  And  now  each 
moment  bririgeth  nearer  the  death-hour  of 
that  father,  and  he  is  mourning  in  solitude 
that  he  may  not  say  farewell.  Where  can 
I  turn  for  help  ?  Ah,  Hassan  !  my  faithful 
slave.  He  is  true,  and  loveth  me  like  his 


281 

own.  He  must  aid  me  [claps  her  hands; 
enter  HASSAN].  Hassan,  thou  lovest  me, 
and  would  not  see  me  grieve  ? 

HASSAN.  Allah,  forbid  !  Thou  art  dear 
to  old  Hassan  as  the  breath  of  life,  and 
while  life  lingers  he  will  serve  thee. 

ZULEIKA.  Then  must  thou  aid  me  in  a 
deed  of  mercy.  Who  doth  keep  watch 
to-night  before  the  tent  of  the  young  Greek  ? 

HASSAN.  Mine  is  the  watch.  Where- 
fore dost  thou  seek  to  know  ? 

ZULEIKA.  Hassan,  thou  hast  sworn  to 
serve  me:  I  have  a  boon  to  ask  of  thee. 

HASSAN.  Speak,  lady  !  thy  slave  doth 
listen. 

ZULEIKA.  Thou  knowest  that  with  the 
morning  sun  Mohammed  hath  sworn  Cleon 
shall  die.  Such  is  the  fierce  anger  he  doth 
bear  his  foe  he  hath  refused  all  mercy  and 
scorned  to  listen  to  the  prayers  of  the 
young  prince  who  hath  journeyed  hither  at 
peril  of  his  own  life  to  place  himself  in 
the  power  of  the  king  as  hostage  for 
his  father. 


232  ION. 

HASSAN.  It  is  indeed  most  true.  Poor 
youth ! 

ZULEIKA.  'T  is  of  him  I  would  speak  to 
thee.  Mohammed,  angered  at  his  boldness, 
hath,  as  thou  knowest,  guarded  him  in 
yonder  tent,  denying  him  his  last  sad 
prayer  to  speak  once  more  in  life  with 
his  father.  Oh,  Hassan,  what  must  be  the 
agony  of  that  young  heart  to  see  the  hours 
swift  speeding  by,  and  know  no  hope. 

HASSAN.  What  wouldst  thou  have  me 
do? 

ZULEIKA.  Lead  him  to  his  father;  give 
him  the  consolation  of  folding  to  his  breast 
the  beloved  one  to  save  whose  life  he  hath 
sacrificed  his  own. 

HASSAN.  Dear  mistress,  thou  art  dream- 
ing, and  cannot  know  the  danger  of  so 
rash  a  deed.  Bethink  thee  of  Mohammed's 
anger,  the  almost  certain  doom  of  such  as 
dare  to  brave  his  mighty  will.  I  pray  thee 
let  not  thy  noble  heart  lead  thee  astray. 
Thou  canst  not  save  him,  and  will  but 
harm  thyself. 


ION.  233 

ZULEIKA.  Hassan,  thy  love  and  true 
devotion,  I  well  know,  doth  prompt  thee 
to  thus  counsel,  and  in  thy  fear  for  me 
thou  dost  forget  to  think  of  mercy  or  of 
pity.  I  thank  thee ;  but  thou  canst  not 
move  me  from  my  firm  resolve.  Again  I 
ask  thee,  Wilt  thou  aid  me  ? 

HASSAN  [falling at  her  feef\.  Pardon,  but 
I  cannot.  Heed,  I  implore  thee,  the  coun- 
sel of  thy  faithful  servant,  and  trust  to  the 
wisdom  these  gray  hairs  have  brought. 
Thou  art  young  and  brave,  but  believe 
me,  maiden,  dangers  of  which  thou  dost 
not  dream  beset  the  path,  and  I  were  no 
true  friend  did  I  not  warn  thee  to  beware. 
Do  not  tempt  me;  I  cannot  aid  thee  to 
thy  ruin. 

ZULEIKA.  Then  will  I  go  alone.  I  will 
brave  the  peril,  and  carry  comfort  to  a 
suffering  soul  [turns  to  go ;  HASSAN  catches 
her  robe]. 

HASSAN.  Maiden !  once  more  let  thy 
slave  entreat.  Thy  father  places  faith  in 
me.  I  am  the  captive's  guard. 


284  ION. 

ZULEIKA.  Peace,  Hassan,  peace  ;  if  life 
be  then  so  dear  to  thee,  and  thy  duty  to 
thy  king  greater  than  that  thou  dost  owe 
to  thy  fellow- man,  Allah  forbid  that  I 
should  tempt  thee  to  forget  it.  But  did 
death  look  me  in  the  face,  I  would  not 
tarry  now. 

HASSAN.  And  thou  wouldst  seek  the 
captive's  cell  ? 

ZULEIKA.  This  very  hour.  Soon  it  will 
be  too  late. 

HASSAN.  Thou  knowest  not  the  way, 
—  soldiers  guard  every  turn.  Oh,  tarry 
till  the  dawn,  I  do  implore  thee. 

ZULEIKA.  The  darkness  shall  be  my 
guide,  Allah  my  guard ;  shrouded  in  yon 
dark  mantle  none  will  deem  me  other  than 
a  slave.  Again  I  ask  thee,  Wilt  thou  go  ? 

HASSAN.  I  go.  I  were  no  true  man  to 
tremble  when  a  woman  fears  not.  I  will 
guide  thee,  and  may  Allah  in  his  mercy 
shield  us  both.  Say  thy  prayers,  Hassan, 
for  thy  head  no  longer  rests  in  safety. 

ZULEIKA.     Come,  let  us  on !     The  mo- 


ION.     .  286 

raents  speed.  The  darkening  gloom  be- 
friends us.  First  to  the  tent  of  the  young 
prince,  and  while  I  in  brief  speech  do  ac- 
quaint him  with  mine  errand,  thou  shalt 
keep  guard  without.  Then  will  we  guide 
him  to  his  father,  and  unto  Allah  leave  the 
rest  [shrouds  herself  in  dark  mantle  and  veil^. 
Lead  on,  good  Hassan.  Let  us  away  ! 

HASSAN.  Fold  thy  veil  closer,  that 
none  may  know  the  daughter  of  Mo- 
hammed walks  thus  late  abroad.  Come, 
and  Allah  grant  we  sleep  not  i-i  paradise 
to-morrow ! 

[Exit,  leadi**   £ULE\KA. 
CURTAIN. 


236  ION. 


SCENE   FOURTH. 

[ION'S  tent. 

ION  chained,  in  an  attitude  of  deep  despair,  upon 

a  miserable  couch.     He  does  not  seu  the  entrance 

of  ZULEIKA  and  HASSAN.] 

ZULEIKA.  Stand  thou  without  as  watch, 
good  Hassan,  and  warn  me  if  any  shall 
approach.  [Exit  HASSAN.]  Young  Greek, 
despair  not ;  hope  is  nigh. 

ION  [starting  up\  Bright  vision,  whence 
comest  thou  ?  Art  thou  the  phantom  of  a 
dream,  or  some  blest  visitant  from  that 
better  land,  come  to  bear  me  hence  ? 
What  art  thou? 

ZULEIKA.  I  am  no  vision,  but  a  mortal 
maiden,  come  to  bring  thee  consolation. 

ION.  Consolation  !  ah,  then  indeed  thou 
art  no  mortal ;  for  unto  grief  like  mine 
there  is  no  consolation,  save  thaj  which 
cometh  from  above. 


ION.  237 

ZULEIKA.  Nay,  believe  it  not.  Human 
hearts  are  at  this  moment  hoping,  and 
human  hands  are  striving  earnestly  to 
spare  thee  the  agony  thou  dost  dread. 

ION.  Are  there  then  hearts  to  feel  for 
the  poor  Greek  ?  I  had  thought  I  was 
alone,  —  alone  'mid  mine  enemies.  Sure, 
those  fetters,  are  no  dream,  this  dark 
cell,  the  words  «  Thy  father  dies ! "  No, 
no  !  it  is  a  dread  reality.  The  words  are 
burned  into  my  brain. 

ZULEIKA.  Is  death,  then,  so  dread  a 
thing  unto  a  warrior?  I  had  thought  it 
brought  him  fame  and  glory. 

ION.  Death !  Oh,  maiden !  To  the 
soldier  on  the  battle-field,  fighting  for  his 
father-land  'mid  the  clash  of  arms,  the 
fierce  blows  of  foemen,  the  shouts  of  vic- 
tory ;  'neath  the  banner  of  his  country, 
the  gratitude  of  a  nation,  the  glory  of  a 
hero  round  his  brow,  —  death  were  a 
happy,  ay,  a  welcome  friend.  But  alone, 
'mid  foes,  disgraced  by  fetters,  dragged  to 
a  dishonored  grave,  with  none  to  whisper 


238  ION. 

of  hope  or  comfort,  death  is  a  cruel,  a  most 
bitter  foe. 

ZULEIKA.  Mine  errand  is  to  take  from 
that  death  the  bitterness  thou  dost  mourn, 
to  give  a  parting  joy  to  the  life  now 
passing. 

ION.  Oh,  hast  thou  the  power  to  save 
my  father's  life !  Oh,  use  it  now,  and 
Greece  shall  bless  thee  for  thy  mercy ! 

ZULEIKA.  Oh,  that  the  power  were  mine, 
how  gladly  would  I  use  it  in  a  cause  so 
glorious!  I  am  but  a  woman,  and  tho'  the 
heart  is  strong,  the  arm  is  very  weak.  I 
cannot  save  thy  father,  but  trust  I  may 
still  cheer  the  parting  hours  with  a  brief 
happiness. 

ION.  Lady,  thy  words  of  kindly  sym- 
pathy fall  like  sweet  music  on  my  troubled 
heart,  and  at  thy  magic  call  hope  springeth 
up  anew.  Thou  art  unknown,  and  yet 
there  is  that  within  that  doth  whisper  I 
may  trust  thee. 

ZULEIKA.  Thou  mayst  indeed.  Heaven 
were  not.  more  true  than  I  will  be 


ION.  289 

unto  my  word.  [HASSAN  pauses  before  the 
door."] 

HASSAN.  Lady,  the  hours  are  fleeting. 
It  were  best  to  make  good  speed. 

ZULEIKA.  Hassan,  thou  dost  counsel 
aright;  morn  must  not  find  me  here.  [7b 
ION.]  Young  Greek,  thou  knowest  with 
the  coming^  dawn  thy  father  dies. 

ION.  Ay,  ere  another  moon  doth  rise 
that  life,  so  dear  to  Greece,  shall  be  no 
more  ;  the  heart  that  beat  so  nobly  at  his 
country's  call  be  still  forever,  —  I  know  it 
well !  * 

ZULEIKA.  And  hast  thou  no  last  word 
for  him,  no  parting  wish  ? 

ION.  0  maiden,  my  life  were  a  glad 
sacrifice,  so  that  I  might  for  a  single  hour 
look  on  him,  —  for  the  last  time  say,  "My 
father,  bless  thy  Ion." 

ZULEIKA.  That  hour  shall  be  thine. 
Fold  thyself  in  yonder  cloak,  and  follow 
me. 

ION.     Follow  thee,  —  and  whither  ? 

ZULEIKA.      To    thy    father's    presence. 


240  ION. 

Thou  shalt  spend  with  him  the  last  hours 
of  his  earthly  life.  Stay  not ;  this  friendly 
gloom  will  ere  long  pass  away. 

ION  \_falling  on  his  knees  and  catching  her 
robe].  Art  thou  my  guardian  angel?  Oh, 
may  the  consolation  thou  hath  poured  into 
a  suffering  soul,  fall  like  heaven's  dew 
upon  thine  own  ;  and  if  the  prayers  of  a 
grateful  heart  bring  hope  and  joy  and 
peace,  thy  life  shall  bloom  with  choicest 
blessings.  0  maiden,  how  do  I  bless 
thee  !  \_Jfisses  her  robe."] 

ZULEIKA.  Speak  not  of  that,  —  kneel 
not  to  me,  a  mortal  maiden.  Thy  grati- 
tude is  my  best  reward.  Hassan,  lead 
on ! 

HASSAN.  Lady,  I  do  thy  bidding.  First 
let  me  lead  thee  to  a  place  of  safety. 

ZULEIKA.  Nay,  Hassan,  I  tarry  here,  — 
thou  canst  return  ;  I  will  await  thee.  Now 
make  all  speed,  —  away  ! 

ION.  Let  us  hence ;  my  heart  can  ill 
contain  its  joy.  Oh,  my  father,  shall  I 
see  thee,  hear  thy  voice,  feel  thine  arms 


ION.  241 

once  more  about  me,  and  die  with  thy 
blessing  on  my  head.  Heaven  hath  blessed 
my  mission. 

ZULEIKA.  Shall  we  depart  ?  The  hour 
wanes. 

ION.  I  will  follow  whither  thou  shalt 
lead,  fiut,  stay !  is  there  no  danger '  unto 
thee  ?  Will  thy  deed  of  mercy  bring  suf- 
fering to  thee,  my  kind  deliverer  ? 

ZULEIKA.  Fear  not  for  me.  Yet  one 
pledge  must  I  ask  of  thee  on  which  my 
safety  doth  depend.  'T  is  this :  Swear 
that  from  the  moment  thou  dost  leave  me 
until  thou  art  again  a  prisoner  here, 
though  the  path  lie  plain  before  thee 
thou  wilt  not  fly. 

ION.     I  swear.     Thou  mayst  trust  me. 

ZULEIKA.  Yet  once  again.  Breathe  not 
to  mortal  ear  the  means  by  which  thou 
sought'st  thy  sire,  and  let  the  memory  of 
this  hour  fade  from  thy  heart  forever.  [!ON 
bows  assentJ]  What  pledge  have  I  of  thy 
secrecy,  and  of  thy  truth? 

ION.     The  word  of  a  Greek  is  sacred, 

16 


242  ION 

and  were  not  my  gratitude  my  surest 
pledge  to  theef 

ZULEIKA.  Pardon,  I  do  trust.  Now 
haste  thee. 

ION  \_pointing  to  his  fetters'].  Thou  dost 
forget  I  am  a  prisoner  still. 

ZULEIKA.  Hassan,  unloose  these  fetters, 
and  give  the  Greek  his  freedom.  [HASSAN 
takes  off  the  chains ;  ION  springs  joyfully 
forward!] 

ION.  Now  am  I  free  again,  and  with 
the  Turk's  base  fetters  have  I  cast  off  my 
fears  and  my  despair.  Hope  smiles  upon 
me,  and  my  father  calls.  Oh,  let  us  tarry 
not. 

ZULEIKA  [folding  a  dark  mantle  round 
him].  Thus  shrouded,  in  safety  thou  mayst 
reach  his  cell;  this  ring  will  spare  thee 
question.  Hassan  will  guide  thee,  and  I 
—  will  pray  for  thy  success.  Farewell ! 
May  Allah  aid  thee ! 

ION.  Lady,  though  I  may  never  know 
thee,  never  look  on  thee  again,  the  mem- 
ory of  this  brief  hour  will  never  fade. 


ION.  243 

The  blessed  gift  of  mercy  thou  dost  bestow 
will  I  ever  treasure  with  the  deepest  grat- 
itude, and  my  fervent  prayer  that  all 
Heaven's  blessings  may  rest  upon  thee 
cease  but  with  my  life  [falls  on  his  knee  and 
kisses  her  hand~\.  Pardon,  —  'tis  my  only 
thanks.  Spirit  of  mercy,  farewell!  fare- 
well! \_Folkws  HASSAN;  ZULEIKA  gazes 
after  him,  then  sinks  down  weeping  ^\ 

CURTAIN. 


244  ION. 


SCENE   FIFTH. 

[Tent  of  CLEON  the  Greek. 
CLEON,  chained,  pacing  to  and  fro.'] 

CLEON.  A  few  short  hours  and  all  is 
o'er,  —  Cleon  sleeps  with  his  fathers.  I 
could  have  wished  to  die  like  a  hero  in 
my  harness,  and  have  known  my  grave 
were  watered  by  my  loved  one's  tears  ;  to 
take  my  wife  once  more  unto  my  bosom ; 
once  more  bless  my  noble  Ion ;  and  pass 
hence  with  the  blest  consciousness  of  vic- 
tory won.  'T  is  bitter  thus  to  die,  inglori- 
ously  and  alone.  \Proudly  raising  his  head.~] 
But  the  name  of  Cleon  is  too  dear  unto  his 
people  e'er  to  be  forgotten.  The  memory 
that  he  strove  ever  for  his  country's  wel- 
fare shall  strew  with  tearful  blessings  his 
unhonored  grave.  [Steps  approach;  voices 
are  heard.']  Ah,  they  come !  They  shall 
find  me  ready.  [Enter  ION.]  Has  mine 
hour  come  ?  I  am  here. 


ION.  245 

[IoN  casts  off  his  cloak,  and  spring 8  forward.] 

ION.     Father  !     O  my  father ! 

CLEON  [starting  back  wildly}.  Thou  ? 
Here! 

ION.  Yes,  thy  Ion;  bless  me,  Father 
[kneels]. 

CLEON  [raising  and  clasping  ION  to  his 
breasf].  Here,  on  rny  heart,  dear  one.  I 
turn  to  meet  my  executioners,  and  see 
thee,  my  boy.  Great  Heaven,  I  bless 
thee !  [  They  embrace  tenderly  and  weep."] 
Thou  earnest  thither  —  how  ? 

ION.     Alone,  with  my  good  sword. 

CLEON.  Thy  guide  through  the  perils 
of  the  way,  my  child  ? 

ION.  The  good  Father  who  doth  guide 
all  who  trust  in  him. 

CLEON.     And  thine  errand  ? 

ION.  To  behold  thee,  my  father,  and 
with  my  life  to  strive  for  thy  release. 

CLEON.  My  noble  boy,  thou  hast  come 
unto  thy  death.  Oh,  who  could  bid  thee 
thus  brave  the  doom  that  must  await 
thee? 


246  /oar. 

ION.  My  mother  bid  me  forth ;  and  as 
she  girded  on  my  sword,  she  bid  me  seek 
my  father,  with  her  blessing  on  my 
mission. 

CLEON.  My  brave  lantha,  thus  for  thy 
country's  sake  to  doom  thine  own  heart  to 
so  deep  a  sorrow  \_fooks  Badly  upon  ION]. 
Tell  me,  rny  son,  did  thy  mother  bear 
bravely  up  against  the  fatal  tidings  ?  I 
had  feared  her  tender  heart  might  but  ill 
meet  a  blow  so  fearful.  Speak  to  me  of 
her. 

ION.  When  the  rude  Turk  did  in  rough 
speech  acquaint  her  with  thy  fell  defeat, 
she  sank  as  one  overpowered  by  her  grief, 
praying  the  friendly  hand  of  death  might 
take  her  hence;  but  soon  the  spirit  of 
the  Greek  rose  high  within  her,  and,  ban- 
ishing her  fears,  with  brave  and  trusting 
heart  she  sent  me  forth  to  seek,  and  if  it 
might  be,  save  thee.  Ah,  my  father,  that 
I  might  die  for  thee  ! 

CLEON.  And  thou  hath  come  to  see  me 
die!  Dost  thou  not  know  that  with  the 


ION.  247 

night  thy  father  passeth  hence,  and  when 
the  stars  again  look  forth  it  will  be  upon 
his  grave  ? 

ION.  Father,  't  is  because  thou  art 
doomed  that  I  am  here.  And  if  my  heart 
speak  truly,  those  same  bright  stars  shall 
serve  to  guide  thee  back  to  freedom. 

CLEON.  Thou  doth  speak  wildly.  What 
wilt  thou  do  ?  Wilt  thou  brave  the  king  ? 

ION  \_proudly\.  Nay,  I  have  knelt  for 
the  last  time  unto  Mohammed.  I  have 
offered  him  my  liberty,  my  service,  ay, 
my  life  itself,  and  he  hath  scorned  me.  I 
have  deigned  to  bow  before  him  as  a  sup- 
pliant, and  he  hath  spurned  me  ;  I  have 
sought  by  all  the  power  love  and  despair 
could  teach  to  move  him,  and  his  ear  was 
closed  to  me.  I  seek  him  not  again. 

CLEON.  Child,  what  hath  led  thee  to  the 
presence  of  the  king  ?  How  didst  thou 
brave  the  frown  of  him  before  whom  even 
armed  men  do  tremble  ?  Didst  thou  dream 
thy  feeble  voice  could  reach  a  heart  so 
cruel,  that  thy  prayers  could  soften 


248  ION. 

one    who    knoweth    not     the     name     of 
mercy  ? 

ION.  Love  can  brave  all  dangers.  It 
giveth  wisdom  to  the  untaught,  strength 
to  the  weak,  hope  to  the  despairing,  com- 
fort to  the  mourner.  Love  hath  been  my 
guide,  my  guard. 

CLEON.  My  boy!  my  Ion!  Truly 
doth  God  place  in  the  pure  heart  of  such 
as  thou  his  truest  wisdom,  his  deepest  faith 
[embraces  him  with  deep  emotion].  But  — 
art  not  thou  in  danger  ?  Did  not  thy  bold 
speech  anger  the  proud  king  ?  Art  thou 
still  free? 

ION.  Let  not  thy  heart  be  vexed  with 
fears  for  me,  —  I  am  unharmed. 

CLEON.  Ion,  deceive  me  not,  but  as 
thou  hopest  for  thy  father's  love,  speak 
truly.  Art  thou  in  danger  from  the  Turk, 
and  in  thy  devotion  to  thy  father  dost 
thou  seek  to  be  thyself  the  sacrifice  ? 
Answer  me,  Ion. 

ION.  Father,  I  sought  to  spare  thy  too 
o'erburdened  heart  another  grief.  I  am  a 


ION.  249 

prisoner  in  Mohammed's  power,  and  know 
not  if  my  fate  be  life  or  death. 

CLEON.  'T  is  as  I  feared  ;  and  thou,  the 
last  hope  of  thy  country,  must  fall,  —  all, 
all,  for  me !  Oh,  mine  own  disgrace  were 
bitter,  but  to  see  thee  die !  Oh,  woe 
is  me ! 

ION.  Father,  were  it  not  better  thus  to 
die,  than  in  disgraceful  peace  to  pass  away 
with  no  thought  for  our  fatherland,  no 
proud  consciousness  of  having  at  the  call 
of  duty  sacrificed  all  we  held  most  dear, 
and  leave  a  name  held  sacred  as  one  who 
yielded  life  and  liberty  on  the  altar  of  his 
country  ? 

CLEON.  But  that  thou  in  thine  inno- 
cence and  bloom  should  meet  death  at  the 
hands  of  heartless  foemen;  and  for  my 
sake  !  'T  is  this  that  tears  my  heart. 

ION.  The'  purer  the  victim  the  more 
acceptable  the  sacrifice.  But  fear  not, 
dear  father.  The  Turk  is  yet  a  man ; 
't  is  'gainst  thee  he  wars,  and  he  will  not 
wreak  his  vengeance  on  a  child.  He  may 


250  ION. 

relent,    and   for   my   love's    sake,   pardon 
mine  offence. 

CLEON.  Child,  thou  knowest  not  Mo- 
hammed. He  pardons  none ;  all  fall  be- 
fore him,  with  relentless  hand,  —  all  strew 
his  pathway  unto  victory.  Will  he  then 
spare  and  pity  thee  ?  Nay,  sire  and  son 
must  fall !  [Stands  sorrowfully.  ION  sud- 
denly sees  ZULEIKA'S  ring  upon  his  hand,  and 
springs  forward^] 

ION.  Father,  thou  shalt  yet  breathe  the 
air  of  freedom,  shall  clasp  my  mother 
to  thy  heart ;  once  more  shall  lead  thy 
gallant  band  onward  to  victory. 

CLEON.  Raise  not  bright  hopes  to  crush 
them  at  their  birth;  wake  not  to  dreams 
of  triumph  the  heart  that  hath  striven  to 
drive  hence  all  save  the  solemn  thoughts 
meet  for  one  so  soon  to  pass  away. 

ION  [pointing  to  the  door].  See,  the  gray 
morning  'gins  to  glimmer  in  the  east.1 
'T  is  no  time  for  despair.  Haste,  Father, 
freedom  is  near! 

CLEON.      What   doth   thus   move    thee, 


ION.  251 

Ion?  Dost  thou  forget  these  chains,  the 
guards,  the  perils  at  each  step  ?  Thou  art 
dreaming ! 

ION.  I  tell  thee  'tis  no  dream.  Thou 
shalt  be  free.  This  mantle  will  disguise 
thee  ;  this  ring  open  a  pathway  through 
the  guards ;  these  stars  shall  be  thy  silent 
guide.  Wilt  thou  go  ? 

CLEON.  Tis  strange!  Whence  then 
that  ring?  How  dost  thou,  a  captive, 
wander  thus  freely,  and  offer  liberty  with 
such  a  bounteous  hand  ? 

ION.  A  solemn  oath  doth  forbid  me  to 
reveal  to  living  man  the  secret  of  this 
hour ;  but  if  ever  angels  do  leave  their 
homes  to  minister  to  suffering  souls,  't  was 
one  most  bright  and  beautiful  who  hath 
this  night  led  me  unto  thee,  and  placed  in 
mine  hand  the  power  to  set  thee  free. 

CLEON.  Truth  speaketh  in  thine  ear- 
nest eye  and  pleading  voice,  and  yet  I 
dare  not  listen  to  thy  tale. 

ION.  Oh,  Father,  heed  not  thy  fears, 
thy  doubts !  Take  thy  liberty,  believing  it 


252  ION. 

heaven-sent.  No  oath  binds  thee  to  Mo- 
hammed; thou  art  no  rightful  prisoner  of 
war,  —  neither  duty  nor  honor  doth  de- 
mand thy  stay.  Thy  country  calls,  and 
Heaven  doth  point  the  way. 

CLEON.  'T  is  true ;  no  oath  doth  bind 
me  to  the  Turk,  and  yet  to  fly  — 
My  soldier's  spirit  doth  ill  brook  such 
retreat. 

ION.  Then  stay  not,  my  father,  but 
whilst  thou  may,  depart. 

CLEON.  Bright  hopes  call  me  hence, 
Life,  love,  fame,  beckon  me  away. 

[HASSAN  looks  in.] 

HASSAN.  The  promised  hour  hath  well- 
nigh  gone.  Prepare,  young  Greek;  we 
must  away. 

ION.  A  moment  more.  \_Exit  HASSAN.] 
Father,  time  wanes.  Once  more  I  do 
entreat  thee,  —  go  ! 

CLEON.  Heaven  grant  I  choose  aright ! 
Come  Ion,  we  will  forth  together.  [!ON 
folds  the  cloak  about  CLEON  ;  gives  him  the 
ring.']  Come,  let  us  go. 


ION.  253 

ION.  Nay,  but  one  can  pass  forth. 
Thou  goest.  I  await  the  morning  here. 

CLEON.  Then  do  I  tarry  also.  Nay, 
Ion,  I  will  not  go  hence  without  thee. 

ION.  Then  all  is  lost.  Father,  thy  ?tay 
can  nought  avail  me.  It  cannot  save,  and 
thou  wilt  but  sacrifice  thine  own  priceless 
life. 

CLEON.  Then  fly  with  me  ;  let  me  bear 
thee  to  thy  mother.  Alone,  I  will  not 

g°- 

ION.     I  cannot  go ;  a  vow  doth  bid  me 

stay,  —  a  vow  that  nought  shall  tempt  me 
from  the  camp  to-night ;  and  when  did  a 
Greek  e'er  break  his  plighted  word  ? 

CLEON.  If  thine  honor  bid  thee  stay,  thy 
father  will  not  tempt  thee  hence ;  but  he 
may  stay  and  suffer  with  thee  the  fate  of 
the  faithful  [throws  off  the  mantle]. 

ION.  Oh,  my  father,  do  not  cast  from 
thee  the  priceless  boon  of  liberty.  Think 
of  thy  broken-hearted  wife,  thy  faithful 
followers,  thy  unconquered  foes;  think, 
Father,  of  thy  country  calling  on  thee  for 


254  ION. 

deliverance.  What  were  my  worthless  life 
weighed  'gainst  her  freedom.  And  what 
happier  fate  for  a  hero's  son  than  for  a 
hero's  sake  to  fall ! 

CLEON.  Thou  true  son  of  Greece ! 
Mayst  thou  yet  live  to  wield  a  sword  for 
thine  oppressed  land,  and  gird  with  laurels 

that  brow  so  worthy  them. 

•  [HASSAN  enters. 

HASSAN.  No  longer  may  I  stay :  thine 
hour  is  past. 

ION.  I  come,  —  yet  one  moment  more, 
good  Hassan ;  it  is  my  last.  [Exit  HASSAN.] 
Once  more,  my  father,  do  I  entreat  thee,  — 
go.  Thou  dost  forget  a  guardian  spirit 
watcheth  over  me,  and  the  power  that  led 
me  hither  may  yet  accomplish  my  deliver- 
ance. If  nought  else  can  move  thee,  for 
my  sake  go,  and  win  for  me  that  freedom 
mine  honor  doth  now  forbid  me  to  seek. 
Break  not  my  heart,  nor  let  me  plead  in 
vain. 

CLEON.  My  boy,  for  thy  dear  sake  do 
I  consent,  I  mtt  earn  thy  deliverance 


ION.  255 

bravely,  as  a  soldier  should  ;  and  thy  dear 
image  shall  be  to  me  the  star  that  leads 
me  on  to  victory. 

ION  \Joyf ully\ .  Away  !  Hassan  will 
guide  thee  past  the  guards.  Then  fly,  — 
and  Heaven  guide  thee,  0  my  father! 
[I ON  again  shrouds  CLEON  in  the  mantle,  con- 
cealing his  chains  in  the  thick  folds.~]  Thus 
muffle  thy  tell-tale  fetters,  that  no  sound 
may  whisper  to  the  Turks  there  walks  a 
Greek  under  the  free  heavens  forth  to 
freedom. 

CLEON.  My  Ion,  one  last  embrace ! 
God  grant  't  is  not  our  last  on  earth  ! 
Bless  thee,  thou  true  young  heart !  Heaven 

guard  thee ! 

[HASSAN  enters  in  haste. 

HASSAN.  Art  ready  ?  We  must  depart. 
[CLEON  bows  his  head  and  follows.  ION  rushes 
after  y  looking  from  the  tent.~\ 

ION.  Saved  !  saved  !  The  morning  sun 
that  was  to  shine  upon  his  grave,  will 
smile  upon  him  far,  far  from  foemen's  power. 
And  Mohammed,  thinking  to  look  upon 


256  ION. 

a  dying  slave,  shall  waken  to  the  sound 
of  his  victorious  war-trump.  Ion,  thy  mis- 
sion is  accomplished.  Thou  hast  given  a 
saviour  to  thy  fatherland,  and  mayst  fall 
thyself  without  a  murmur  [looks  up  thank- 
fully ;  a  loud  noise  without] . 

[Enter  ABDALLAH  and  MUEAD. 

ABD.  Where  is  the  prisoner?  Come 
forth !  v 

ION.     I  am  here  [comes  forward]. 

ABD.  Ha  !  —  here  is  treason  !  With- 
out there !  —  the  prisoner  hath  escaped  ! 

MURAD.  Who  flieth  yonder,  past  the 
camp? 

ABD.  'T  is  he  !  Forth,  call  for  aid  !  Search 
without  delay !  Here  is  foul  work  abroad. 
First,  seize  yon  boy ;  fetter  the  base  spy ; 
bear  him  before  the  king.  Speed  hence  ! 

MURAD  [to  ION].     Infidel  dog,  thou  shalt 
learn  what  it  is  to  brave  Mohammed's  ire ! 
[They  seize  ION,  and  draff  him  away.] 

CURTAIN. 


BIANCA. 

OPERATIC    TRAGEDY. 


NOTE  TO  BIANCA. 

THE  peculiarity  of  this  opera  was  that  while 
the  words  were  committed  to  memory,  the 
music  was  composed  and  sung  as  the  scene 
proceeded. 

In  spite  of  its  absurdity,  this  play  was  a  great 
favorite  ;  for  Jo  was  truly  superb  as  the  hapless 
Bianca,  while  her  trills  and  tragic  agonies 
were  considered  worthy  of  the  famous  Grisi 
herself.  . 


CHARACTERS. 

ADELBERT Betrothed  to  Bianca. 

HUON His  Rival. 

JUAN A  Page. 

BIANCA A  Spanish  Lady. 

HILDA  A  Witch. 


BIANCA. 

OPERATIC    TRAGEDY. 

SCENE  FIRST. 

[A  wood. 
Enter  HUON.] 

HUON.  Hist!  All  is  still.  They  are 
not  yet  here.  On  this  spot  will  the  happy 
lovers  meet.  0  wretched  Huon !  she 
whom  thou  so  passionately  doth  love  will 
here  speak  tender  words  to  thy  thrice 
hated  rival.  Yet  I,  unseen,  will  watch 
them,  and  ere  long  my  fierce  revenge  shall 
change  their  joy  to  deepest  woe.  Hark  ! 
they  come !  Now,  jealous  heart,  be  still ! 
[Hides  among  the  freest] 

[Enter  BIANCA  and  ADELBERT. 

ADEL.     Nay,  dearest  love,  fear  not ;  no 

mortal  eye  beholds  us  now,  and  yon  bright 

moon  looks  kindly  down  upon  our  love. 

[They  Beat  themselves  beneath  the  trees. 


262  BIANCA. 

BIANCA.  Ah,  dearest  Adelbert,  with 
thee  I  feel  no  fear,  but  thy  fierce  rival 
Huon  did  vow  vengeance  on  thee,  for  I 
did  reject  his  suit  for  thine.  Beware !  for 
his  wild  heart  can  feel  no  pity,  tenderness, 
or  love. 

ADEL.  I  fear  him  not.  Ere  long  thou 
wilt  be  mine,  and  then  in  our  fair  home  we 
will  forget  all  but  our  love.  Think  not, 
dearest,  of  that  dark,  revengeful  man ;  he 
does  not  truly  love  thee. 

BIANCA.  Near  thee  I  cannot  fear ;  but 
when  thou  art  far  from  me,  my  fond  heart 
will  ever  dread  some  danger  for  thee.  Ah, 
see  the  moon  is  waning;  dear  love,  thou 
must  away. 

ADEL.  Ah,  sweet  moments,  why  so 
quickly  fled  ?  'T  is  hard  to  leave  thee, 
thou  bright  star  in  my  life's  sky,  and  yet 
I  must,  or  all  may  be  betrayed.  Fare  thee 
well,  dear  love.  One  sweet  kiss  ere  we 
part !  \They  embrace^ 

BIANCA.  Farewell!  Ah.  when  shall  I 
again  behold  thee  ?  Oh,  be  not  long 


BIANOA.  263 

away,   for   like    a   caged   bird   I  pine  for 
thee. 

ADEL.  When  next  yon  moon  doth  rise 
beneath  thy  lattice,  thou  shalt  hear  my 
light  guitar. 

BIANCA.  Fail  not  to  come.  I  shall 
watch  for  thee  the  live-long  night,  and  if 
thou  comest  not,  this  fond  heart  will 
grieve. 

BOTH.     Farewell,  till  yon  bright  moon 

doth  rise, 

Farewell,  dear  love,  farewell ! 
Farewell,  farewell,  farewell ! 
Farewell,  dear  love,  farewell ! 

[Exit  ADELBERT. 

BIANCA.  Ah,  love,  thou  magic  power, 
thus  ever  make  iny  breast  thy  home. 
Adieu,  dear  spot !  I  fly  to  happiness 
and  — 

HUON.  Me  —  [BiANCA  shrieks,  and  seeks 
to  fly.  HUON  detains  her.~\ 

BIANCA.  Unmanly  villain,  touch  me 
not.  What  dost  thou  here  concealed  ? 

HUON.     I  listen  to  thy  lover's  fond  and 


264  BIANCA. 

heartless  vows.  What  is  his  love  to  mine  ? 
Ah,  lady,  he  loves  thee  for  thy  wealth 
alone.  Again  I  ask,  nay,  I  implore  thee 
to  be  mine !  Oh,  grant  me  now  my 
prayer ! 

BIANCA.  Never !  never !  I  will  not  listen 
to  thee  more.  My  heart  is  all  another's ; 
my  hatred  and  contempt  are  thine. 

[Exit  BIANCA. 

HUON.  Now,  by  yon  moon  'neath  which 
thy  tender  vows  were  plighted,  do  I  swear 
to  win  thee,  proud  and  haughty  lady,  to 
these  arms.  Thou  shalt  curse  the  day 
when  thou  didst  cast  away  my  love,  and 
wake  my  deep  revenge. 

[Exit  HUON. 

CURTAIN. 


BIANCA.  265 


SCENE  SECOND. 

[A  cave  in  the  forest.     HILDA  leaning  over  a 
boiling  caldron.     Enter  HUON.] 

HILDA.  Ha !  who  art  thou,  and  what 
wouldst  thou  with  old  Hilda  ?  Speak,  and 
he  obeyed. 

HUON.  0  mighty  wizard.  I  have 
sought  thee  for  a  charm  to  win  a  proud 
and  scornful  woman's  love,  —  some  mystic 
potion  that  shall  make  her  cold  heart  burn 
for  me.  Ah,  give  me  this,  and  gold  un- 
counted shall  be  thine. 

HILDA.  I  will  give  to  thee  a  draught 
that  shall  chase  her  coldness  and  her  pride 
away,  and  make  the  heart  now  beating  for 
another  all  thine  own.  Hold !  't  is  here, 
—  three  crimson  drops  when  mingled  in 
her  wine,  will  bring  the  boon  thou  askest 
^gives  HUON  a  tiny  phiaT\. 

HUON.  Oh,  blessed  draught  that  wins 
for  me  the  love  I  seek.  Proud  Bianca, 


266  BIANCA. 

now  art  thou  in  my  power,  and  shalt  ere 
long  return  the  love  of  the  once  hated  and 
despised  Huon.  Great  sorceress,  say  how 
can  I  repay  thee  ?  Fear  not  to  claim  thy 
just  reward. 

HILDA.  I  ask  no  gold.  But  when  thy 
prize  is  won,  remember  thou  old  Hilda's 
warning.  Woman's  heart  is  a  fragile  thing, 
and  they  who  trifle  with  it  should  beware. 
Now  go ;  I  would  be  alone. 

HUON.  Farewell !  When  my  love  and 
my  revenge  are  won,  I  '11  bless  this  hour 

and  Hilda's  charm. 

[Exit  HUON. 

HILDA.  Poor  fool !  thou  little  thinkest 
thy  love-charm  is  a  deadly  draught,  and 
they  who  quaff  it  die.  When  thou  shalt 
seek  thy  lady,  hoping  for  her  love,  a  dead 
bride  thou  wilt  win.  Ha  !  ha  !  old  Hilda's 
spells  work  silently  and  well. 

CURTAIN. 


BIANCA.  267 


SCENE  THIRD. 

[Room  in  the  castle  of  BIANCA.     Evening. 
Enter  HUON.] 

HUON.  How  can  I  best  give  the 
draught  that  none  may  see  the  deed? 
Ha!  yonder  comes  her  page,  bearing 
wine.  Now  in  her  cup  will  I  mingle  these 
enchanted  drops,  and  she  shall  smile  on 
me  when  next  I  plead  my  suit.  Ho,  Juan, 
my  boy  !  come  hither ;  I  would  speak  with 
thee.  [Enter  JUAN  urith  mneJ]  Where  is 
thy  lady  now  ? 

JUAN.  At  her  lattice,  watching  for  Lord 
Adelbert,  and  gazing  on  the  flowers  he 
hath  sent. 

HUON  [aside].  She  shall  never  watch 
and  wait  for  him  again,  [^.fowdf.]  Whence 
bearest  thou  the  wine,  Juan  ?  Is  it  to 
thy  lady? 

JUAN.  Yes,  my  lord.  She  bid  me 
haste.  I  must  away. 


268  BIANCA. 

HUON.  Stay !  clasp  my  sandal,  boy ; 
I  will  repay  thee  if  thy  mistress  chide. 
[JUAN  stoops;  HUON  drops  the  potion  into  the 
wine  cup."]  Thanks  ;  here  is  gold  for  thee. 
Away,  and  tell  thy  lady  I  will  be  here 

anon. 

[Exit  JUAN. 

Ha,  ha  !  't  is  done !  't  is  done  ! 
My  vengeance  now  is  won, 
And  ere  to-morrow's  sun  shall  set, 
Thou,  haughty  lady,  shalt  forget 
The  lover  who  now  hastes  to  thee, 
And  smile  alone,  alone  on  me. 

•     [Exit  HUON. 

CURTAIN. 


BIANCA.  269 


SCENE   FOURTH. 

[BiANCA's  castle.    A  moonlit  balcony. 
Enter  BIANCA.] 

BIANCA.  He  comes  not.  Yon  bright 
moon  will  ere  long  set,  and  still  I  hear  not 
the  dear  voice  'neath  my  lattice  singing. 
Adelbert !  Ah,  come  !  Hist !  I  hear 
his  light  boat  on  the  lake.  'T  is  he  !  't  is 
he !  [Leans  over  the  bakont/J] 

[ADELBERT  sings  in  the  garden  below. 

The  moon  is  up,  wake,  lady,  wake ! 
My  bark  is  moored  on  yonder  lake. 
The  stars'  soft  eyes  alone  can  see 
My  meeting,  dear  one,  here  with  thee. 

Wake,  dearest,  wake  !  lean  from  thy  bower, 
The  moonlight  gleams  on  tree  and  flower. 
The  summer  sky  smiles  soft  above ; 
Look  down  on  me,  thou  star  of  love ! 

BIANCA.  Adelbert,  dear  love,  now  haste 
tbee  quickly  up  to  me. 

[Enter  ADELBERT  upon  the  balcony, 

»  4  V 


270  BIANCA. 

ADEL.  Sweet  love,  why  fearest  thou  ? 
None  dare  stay  me  when  I  fly  to  thee. 
Ah,  sit  thee  here,  and  I  will  rest  beside 
thee.  [BIANCA  seats  herself ;  ADELBERT 
lies  at  her  feet.] 

BIANCA.  Thou  art  weary,  love.  I  '11 
bring  thee  wine,  and  thou  shalt  rest  while 
I  do  sing  to  thee.  [She  gives  him  urine ;  he 
drinks."] 

ADEL.  Thanks  to  thee,  dearest  love, 
I  am  weary  now  no  longer.  When  here 
beside  thee,  pain,  sorrow,  time  are  all  for- 
got. Ah !  what  is  this  ?  —  a  deadly  pang 
hath  seized  me.  All  grows  dark  before 
mine  eyes.  I  cannot  see  thee.  Yon  cup, 
—  't  was  poisoned !  I  am  dying,  dying! 

BIANCA.  Ah,  nay,  thou  art  faint !  Speak 
not  of  dying,  love.  [ADELBERT  falls.] 
Adelbert,  Adelbert,  speak  !  —  speak  !  It  is 
thine  own  Bianca  calls  thee  !  [Throws  her- 
self beside  him.'] 

ADEL.  Farewell,  dear  love,  farewell! 
Huon  hath  won  his  vengeance  now.  God 
ble03  tbee,  dearest,  Oh,  farewell  I  [Dies.'] 


BIANCA.  271 

BIANCA.  Awake  !  awake !  Ah,  cold  and 
still !  Thou  true,  brave  heart,  thou  art 
hushed  forever.  Huon !  yes  !  't  was  he  ; 
and  he  hath  sought  to  win  me  thus.  But 
't  is  in  vain !  Where  is  the  poisoned  cup 
that  I  may  join  thee,  Adelbert  ?  [Takes  the 
cup."]  Ah,  't  is  gone :  there  is  no  more. 
Yet  I  will  be  with  thee,  my  murdered  love. 
For  me  life  hath  no  joy,  and  I  will  find 
thee  even  in  death  [fatts  fainting  to  the 
ground\. 

CURTAIN. 


272  BIANCA. 


SCENE   FIFTH. 

[BiANCA's  castle. 
The  garden.     BIANCA  singing, ,] 

Faded  flowers,  faded  flowers, 

They  are  all  now  left  to  cherish  ; 
For  the  hopes  and  joys  of  my  young  life's  spring 

I  have  seen  so  darkly  perish. 

Cold,  ah,  cold,  in  the  lone,  dark  grave, 

My  murdered  love  lies  low, 
And  death  alone  can  bring  sure  rest 

To  this  broken  heart's  deep  woe. 

Faded  flowers,  faded  flowers, 

They  are  all  now  left  to  cherish ; 
For  ah,  his  dear  hand  gathered  them, 

And  my  love  can  never  perish. 

[  Weeps. 

[Enter  HuON  and  kneels  at  her  feet. 
BiANCA  [starling   up].     Fiend  !    demon  ! 
touch  me  not  with  hands  that  murdered 
him  !     Hence  !  out  of  my  sight,  —  away  ! 


BIANCA.  273 

HUON.  Nay,  lady,  nay!  I  swear  by 
Heaven  it  was  not  I.  The  spell  I  mingled 
in  thy  cup  was  but  to  win  thy  love.  The 
old  witch  hath  deceived  me,  and  given  that 
deadly  poison.  Forgive  me,  I  implore 
thee,  and  here  let  me  offer  thee  my  love 
once  more. 

BIANCA  [repulsing  him"} .  Love !  darest  thou 
to  speak  of  love  to  me,  whose  bright  dream 
of  life  thou  hast  destroyed?  Love!  I  who 
loathe,  scorn,  hate  thee  with  a  deep  arid 
burning  hate  that  death  alone  can  still ! 
Oh,  Heaven,  have  mercy  on  my  tortured 
heart,  and  let  it  break. 

HUON  [aside].  His  death  hath  well-nigh 
driven  her  mad.  Dear  lady,  grieve  not 
thus.  Let  me  console  thee.  Forget  thy 
love,  and  seek  in  mine  the  joy  thou  hast 
lost. 

BIANCA.  Forget !  Ah,  never,  never, 
till  in  death  I  join  him !  Forgive  thee  ? 
Not  till  I  have  told  thy  crime.  Yes,  think 
not  I  will  rest  till  thou,  my  murdered 
Adelbert,  art  well  avenged.  And  thou ! 

18 


274  B1ANCA. 

—  ah,  sinful  man,  tremble,  for  thou  art  in 
my  power,  and  my  wronged  heart  can  feel 
no  pity  now. 

HUON  [fiercely].  Wouldst  thou  betray 
me  ?  Never !  Yield  thou  to  my  love,  or 
I  will  sheathe  my  dagger  in  thy  heart,  and 
silence  thee  forever ! 

BIANCA.  I  will  not  yield.  The  world 
shall  know  thy  guilt,  and  then  sweet  death 
shall  be  a  blessing. 

HUON.  Then  die,  and  free  me  from  the 
love  and  fear  that  hang  like  clouds  above 
me  [stabs  her]. 

BIANCA.  Thy  sin  will  yet  be  known, 
and  may  God  pardon  thee !  0  earth, 
farewell !  My  Adelbert,  I  come,  I  come  ! 
[Dies] 

HUON.  Dead!  dead!  Oh,  wretched 
Huon !  Where  now  seek  rest  from  bitter 
memories  and  remorse.  Ha,  a  step !  I 
must  fly.  Angel,  fare  thee  well ! 

[Exit  HUON. 

CURTAIN. 


BIANCA.  275 


SCENE  SIXTH. 

[HuoN's  room.     HUON  asleep  upon  a  couch. 

Enter  BlANCA's  spirit.     She  lays  her  hand 

upon  him.] 

HUON  [starting  in  affright].  Ha  !  spirit 
of  the  dead,  what  wouldst  thou  now  ?  For 
long,  long  nights  why  hast  thou  haunted 
me  ?  Cannot  my  agony,  remorse,  and 
tears  win  thee  to  forget?  Ah,  touch  me 
not !  Away  !  away  !  See  how  the  vision 
follows.  It  holds  me  fast.  Bianca,  save 
me !  save  me  !  [Falls  and  dies."] 

[Tableau, 

I 

CURTAIN. 


THE    UNLOVED    WIFE; 

OR, 

WOMAN'S    FAITH. 


CHARACTERS. 

COUNT  ADBIAN Nina's  Husband. 

DON  FELIX His  Secret  Rival. 

NlNA The  Unbvtd  Wi 

HAGAB A  lortun*  TulUr. 


THE    UNLOVED    WIFE; 

OR, 

WOMAN'S    FAITH. 


SCENE  FIRST. 

[Room  in  the  palace  of  COUNT  ADRIAN. 
Enter  NINA.] 

NINA.  'T  is  a  fair  and  lovely  home  and 
well  befits  a  gay  young  bride ;  but  ah,  not 
if  she  bear  a  sad  and  weary  heart  like  mine 
beneath  her  bridal  robes.  All  smile  on  me 
and  call  me  happy,  blessed  with  such  a 
home  and  husband ;  and  yet  'mid  all  my 
splendor  I  could  envy  the  poor  cottage 
maiden  at  her  spinning-wheel.  For  ah, 
'mid  all  her  poverty  one  sweet  thought 
comes  ever  like  a  sunny  sky  to  brighten 
e'en  her  darkest  hours,  for  she  is  loved ; 
while  I  yet  sigh  in  vain  for  one  kind  word, 


280  THE   UNLOVED   WIFE; 

one  tender  glance,  from  him  I  love  so 
fondly.  Ah,  he  comes,  no  sad  tears  now, 
sorrow  is  for  my  lonely  hours  and  I  will 
smile  on  him  e'en  though  my  heart  is 

breaking. 

[Enter  COUNT  ADRIAN. 

ADRIAN  [coldly"].  Good-even,  madam,  I 
trust  all  things  are  placed  befitting  a  fair 
lady's  bower  and  thou  hast  found  thy  home 
a  pleasant  one. 

NINA.  Adrian,  husband,  speak  not  thus 
to  me.  I  could  find  more  joy  in  some  poor 
cell  with  thee,  than  all  the  wealth  that 
kings  could  give  if  thou  wert  gone.  Look 
kindly  on  me  and  I  ask  no  more.  One 
smile  from  thee  can  brighten  all  the  world 
to  these  fond  eyes.  Oh,  turn  not  away, 
but  tell  me  how  have  I  angered  thee,  and 
grant  thy  pardon  for  thy  young  wife's  first 
offence. 

ADRIAN.  The  pardon  I  could  give  were 
worthless  for  the  time  is  past.  Tis  too 
late  to  ask  forgiveness  now.  It  matters 
not,  then  say  no  more  [turns  away\ 


OR,    WOMAN'S  FAITH.  281 

NINA.  My  lord,  I  charge  thee  tell  me 
of  what  dark  crime  thou  dost  think  me 
guilty !  Fear  not  to  tell  me  ;  innocence 
is  strong  to  bear  and  happy  to  forgive. 
Ah,  leave  me  not,  I  cannot  rest  till  I  know 
all,  and  if  the  deep  devotion  of  a  woman's 
heart  can  still  repair  the  wrong,  it  shall  be 
thine  —  but  answer  me. 

ADRIAN.  Canst  thou  unsay  the  solemn 
words  that  bound  us  at  the  altar  three 
short  days  ago  ?  Canst  thou  give  back  the 
freedom  thou  hast  taken,  break  the  vows 
thou  hast  plighted,  cast  away  that  ring  and 
tell  me  I  am  free  ?  Do  it,  and  my  full  for- 
giveness shall  be  thine. 

NINA.  Give  thee  back  thy  freedom ; 
am  I  a  chain  to  bind  thee  to  what  thou 
dost  not  love  ?  Take  back  the  vows  I 
made  to  honor  thee  ;  what  dost  thou  mean  ? 
I  am  thy  wife  and  dost  thou  hate  me  ? 

ADRIAN.     I  do. 

NINA.  God  help  me  now.  Tell  me, 
Adrian,  I  implore  thee,  tell  me  what  have 
I  done  to  tempt  such  cruel  words  from 


282  THE   UNLOVED    WIFE; 

thee  ?  I  loved  thee  and  left  all  to  be  thy 
wife,  and  now  when  my  poor  heart  is  long- 
ing for  one  tender  word  to  cheer  its  sorrow, 
thou,  the  husband  who  hath  vowed  to  love 
and  cherish  me,  hath  said  thou  dost  hate 
me.  Ah,  am  I  sleeping  ?  Wake  me  or  the 
dream  will  drive  me  mad. 

ADRIAN.  'T  is  a  dream  I  cannot  banish. 
We  must  part. 

NINA.  Part  —  go  on,  the  blow  hath 
fallen,  I  can  feel  no  more.  Go  on. 

ADRIAN.  Thou  knowest  I  wooed  thee. 
Thou  wert  fair  and  wondrous  rich;  I  sought 
thy  gold,  not  thee,  for  with  thy  wealth  I 
would  carve  out  a  path  through  life  that 
all  should  honor.  Well,  we  were  wed,  and 
when  I  sought  to  take  thy  fortune  it  was 
gone,  and  not  to  me,  but  to  thy  father's 
friend,  Don  Felix.  It  was  all  left  to  him, 
and  thou  wert  penniless;  and  thus  I  won  a 
wife  I  loved  not,  and  lost  the  gold  I  would 
have  died  to  gain.  Thinkest  thou  not  I  am 
well  angered?  But  for  thee  I  might  yet 
win  a  noble  bride  whose  golden  fetters  I 
would  gladly  wear. 


OR,    WOMAN'S  FAITH.  283 

NINA.  And  this  is  he  to  whom  I  gave 
my  heart  so  filled  with  boundless  love  and 
trust.  Oh,  Adrian,  art  thou  so  false  ?  What 
is  gold  to  a  woman's  deathless  love  ?  Can 
it  buy  thee  peace  and  all  the  holy  feelings 
human  hearts  can  give  ?  Can  it  cheer  and 
comfort  thee  in  sorrow,  or  weep  fond,  happy 
tears  when  thou  hast  won  the  joy  and 
honor  thou  dost  seek  ?  No,  none  of  these, 
the  golden  chains  will  bind  thee  fast  till  no 
sweet  thought,  no  tender  hope  can  come 
to  thee.  I  plead  not  now  for  my  poor  self, 
but  for  thine  own  heart  thou  doth  wrong 
so  cruelly  by  such  vain  dreams. 

ADRIAN.  Enough.  Thou  hast  a  noble 
name  and  men  will  honor  thee,  thou  wilt 
suffer  neither  pain  nor  want.  I  will  leave 
thee  and  wander  forth  to  seek  mine  own 
sad  lot.  Farewell,  and  when  they  ask  thee 
for  thy  husband,  tell  them  thou  hast  none, 
and  so  be  happy  [turns  to  go\. 

NINA.  Oh,  Adrian,  I  implore  thee  stay, 
I  will  bear  all  thy  coldness,  ay  even  thy 
contempt.  I  will  toil  for  thee  and  seek  to 


284  THE   UNLOVED   WIFE; 

win  the  gold  for  which  thou  dost  sigh,  I 
will  serve  thee  well  and  truly,  for  with  all 
my  heart  I  love  thee  still.  Leave  me  not 
now  or  I  shall  die !  [Kneels  and  clasps  Ms 
h(wd.~\ 

ADRIAN.  I  am  a  slave  till  death  shall 
set  me  free.  We  shall  not  meet  again. 
Nay,  kneel  not  to  me.  I  do  forgive  thee, 
but  I  cannot  love  thee  [rushes  out]. 

NINA.  This  is  more  than  I  can  bear. 
Oh,  Father,  take  thy  poor  child  home,  and 
still  the  sorrow  of  this  broken  heart. 

CURTAIN. 


OR,    WOMAN'S  FAITH.  285 


SCENE  SECOND. 

[Home  of  HAGAR,  the  gypsy. 
Enter  HAGAR  and  NINA.] 

HAGAR.  What  brings  thee  hither,  gentle 
lady,  and  how  can  the  wanderer  serve  the 
high-born  and  the  fair? 

NINA  [sadly'}.  There  is  often  deeper 
sorrow  in  the  palace  than  the  cot,  good 
Hagar,  and  I  seek  thee  for  some  counsel 
that  will  cure  the  pain  of  a  lonely  heart. 
I  have  tried  all  others'  skill  in  vain,  and 
come  to  thee  so  learned  in  mystic  lore  to 
give  me  help.  I  am  rich  and  can  repay 
thee  well. 

HAGAR.  I  can  read  a  sad  tale  in  thy 
pale  and  gentle  face,  dear  lady.  Thou  art 
young  and  loving,  but  the  hope  of  youth  is 
gone;  and  thou  art  sorrowing  with  no  fond 
heart  whereon  to  lean,  no  tender  voice  to 
ppmfort  m$  to  cJieer?  Ah?  have  J  re 


286  THE   UNLOVED    WIFE; 

aright  ?  Then  the  only  charm  to  still  thy 
pain  is  death. 

NINA.  'T  is  death  I  long  for.  That  still, 
dreamless  sleep  would  bring  me  peace. 
But  'tis  a  fearful  thing  to  take  the  life 
God  gave,  and  I  dare  not.  Canst  thou  not 
give  me  help  ? 

HAGAR.  Within  this  tiny  casket  there 
is  that  which  brings  a  quiet  sleep  filled 
with  happy  dreams,  and  they  who  drink 
the  draught  lie  down  and  slumber,  and  if 
not  awakened  it  will  end  in  death.  But 
thou,  sweet  lady,  wouldst  not  leave  this  fair 
world  yet.  Tell  me  more,  for  this  old 
heart  is  warm  and  tender  still,  and  per- 
chance I  can  help  thee. 

NINA.  'T  is  strange  that  I  can  feel  such 
faith  in  thee,  kind  friend,  but  I  am  young 
and  lonely  and  I  seek  some  heart  for  coun- 
sel. Thou  art  from  my  own  fair  land  and 
I  will  tell  thee  of  my  sorrow.  'T  is  a  short, 
sad  tale.  I  loved,  was  wed,  and  then  —  oh, 
darksome  day  —  I  learned  my  husband  felt 
no  Jpye,  and  sought  me  pnlv  for  my  gold? 


OR,    WOMAN'S  FAITH.  287 

I  was  penniless,  and  thus  he  cast  me  off ;  and 
now  for  long,  long  weeks  I  have  not  seen 
him,  for  he  would  not  dwell  with  her  who 
loved  him  more  than  life  itself.  Now  give 
me  some  sweet  charm  to  win  that  lost  heart 
back.  Ah,  Hagar,  help  me. 

HAGAR.  I  can  give  thee  no  truer  charm 
than  that  fair  face  and  noble  soul,  dear 
lady.  Be  thou  but  firm  and  faithful  in  thy 
love  and  it  will  win  thy  husband  back. 
God  bless  and  grant  all  happiness  to  one 
who  doth  so  truly  need  it. 

NINA.  Give  me  the  casket;  and  when 
life  hath  grown  too  bitter  to  be  borne  then 
will  I  gladly  lay  the  burden  down,  and 
blessing  him  I  love  so  well  sleep  that  calm 
slumber  that  knows  no  awaking.  Farewell, 
Hagar,  thou  hast  given  me  comfort  and  I 

thank  thee. 

[Exit  NINA. 

CURTAIN. 


288  THE   UNLOVED   WIFE; 


SCENE  THIRD. 

[One  year  is  supposed  to  have  elapsed.  A 
room  in  the  palace  of  NINA.  Enter  ADRIAN 
disguised.] 

ADRIAN.  Here  last  I  saw  her  one  long 
year  ago.  How  the  wild,  sweet  voice  still 
rings  in  my  ear  imploring  me  to  stay.  I 
can  find  no  rest  save  here  ;  and  thus  do  I 
seek  my  home,  worn  out  by  my  long  wan- 
dering, and  trusting  to  learn  tidings  of  poor 
Nina.  If  she  be  true  and  love  me  still  I 
will  cast  away  my  pride,  my  coldness,  and 
all  vain  hopes  of  wealth,  and  let  the  sun- 
light of  that  pure,  young  life  brighten  my 
life  henceforth.  I  hear  a  step,  and  will 
hide  here,  perchance  I  may  thus  see  her 

\hides  behind  curtain']. 

[Enter  NINA. 

NINA.  No  rest  for  thee  poor  heart,  ever 
whispering  that  dear  name,  ever  sorrowing 


OR,    WOMAN'S  FAITH.  289 

for  those  hard  words  that  gave  so  deep  a 
wound.  All  is  dark  and  lonely,  for  he  is 
gone.  Only  these  withered  flowers,  dearer 
by  far  than  my  most  costly  gems,  for  his 
hand  hath  touched  them,  and  he  smiled  on 
me  when  they  were  given.  Oh,  Adrian, 
wilt  thou  never  give  one  tender  thought 
to  her  who  still  loves  and  prays  for  thee  ? 
Death  will  soon  free  thee  from  thy  hated 

wife. 

[Exit  NINA. 

ADRIAN  [stealing  forth~\.  And  this  is  she, 
whose  pure  young  love  I  have  cast  away, 
the  fond,  trusting  bride  I  left  alone  and 
friendless.  She  still  loves  on,  and  offers  up 
her  prayers  for  one  who  sought  to  break 
that  tender  heart  so  cruelly.  I  will  watch 
well  and  guard  thee,  Nina ;  and  if  thou  art 
truly  mine  thou  shalt  find  a  happy  home 
with  him  thy  patient  love  hath  won. 

[Exit  ADRIAN  and  re-enter  NINA. 

NINA  [with  ADRIAN'S  picture}.  Ah,  these 
cold  eyes  smile  kindly  on  me  here,  and  the 
lips  seem  speaking  tender  words.  Other 

19 


290  THE   UNLOVED   WIFE; 

faces  are  perchance  more  fair,  but  none  so 
dear  to  me.  Oh,  husband,  thou  hast  cast 
me  off;  and  yet,  though  lonely  and  forsaken, 
I  still  can  cherish  loving  thoughts  of  thee, 
and  round  thy  image  gather  all  the  tender 
feelings  that  a  woman's  heart  can  know. 
Thy  cruel  words  I  can  forgive,  and  the 
trusting  love  I  gave  thee  glows  as  warmly 
now  as  when  thou  didst  cast  it  by  and  left 
me  broken-hearted  \_iveeps;  enter  DON 
FELIX].  My  lord,  what  seekest  thou  with 
me  ?  Thou  dost  smile.  Ah,  hast  thou 
tidings  of  my  husband  ?  Tell  me  quickly, 
I  beseech  thee. 

DON  FELIX.  Nay,  dear  lady  —  But  sit 
thee  down  and  let  me  tell  thee  why  I  came. 
[He  leads  her  to  a  sofa.~\  Thou  knowest  I 
have  been  with  thee  from  a  child.  I  stood 
beside  thee  at  the  altar,  and  was  the  first  to 
cheer  and  comfort  thee  when  thou  wast 
left  deserted  and  alone.  Let  me  now  ask 
thee,  Wouldst  thou  not  gladly  change  thy 
sad  lot  here  for  a  gay  and  joyous  life  with 
one  who  loves  thee  fondly  ? 


OR,    WOMAN'S  FAITH.  291 

NINA.  It  were  indeed  a  happy  lot  to  be 
so  loved  and  cherished ;  but  where,  alas,  is 
he  who  could  thus  feel  for  one  so  lonely 
and  forsaken  ? 

DON  FELIX  \Jcneeling].  Here  at  thy  feet, 
dear  Nina.  Nay,  do  not  turn  away,  but 
let  me  tell  thee  of  the  love  that  hath 
grown  within  my  heart.  [Nina  starts  itp.~] 
Thy  wedded  lord  hath  cast  thee  off.  The 
law  can  free  thee.  Ah,  then  be  mine,  and 
let  me  win  and  wear  the  lovely  flower 
which  he  hath  cast  away. 

NINA.  Lord  Felix,  as  the  wife  of  him 
thou  dost  so  wrong,  I  answer  thee.  Dost 
thou  not  know  the  more  a  woman's  heart 
is  crushed  and  wounded  the  more  tenderly 
it  clings  where  first  it  loved ;  and  though 
deserted,  ay,  though  hated,  I  had  rather 
be  the  slighted  wife  of  him,  than  the  hon- 
ored bride  of  the  false  Costella.  Now 
leave  me  —  I  would  be  alone. 

DON  FELIX.  A  time  will  come,  proud 
woman,  when  thou  shalt  bend  the  knee  to 
him  whom  now  thou  dost  so  scorn.  Be- 


292  THE   UNLOVED    WIFE; 

ware,  for  I  will  have  a  fierce  revenge  for 
the  proud  words  thou  hast  spoken. 

NINA.  I  am  strong  in  mine  own  heart 
and  fear  thee  not.  Work  thy  will  and  thou 
shalt  find  the  wife  of  Adrian  de  Mortemar 
needs  no  protector  save  her  own  fearless 

hand. 

{Exit  NINA. 

DON  FELIX.  Now,  by  my  faith,  thou 
shalt  bow  that  haughty  head,  and  sue  to 
me  for  mercy,  and  I  will  deny  it.  I  '11 
win  her  yet,  she  shall  not  idly  brave  my 
anger.  Now  to  my  work,  —  revenge. 

{Exit  DON  FELIX 

• 

CURTAIN. 


OR,   WOMAN'S  FAITH.  298 


SCENE  FOURTH. 

[Apartment  in  palace  of  NlNA. 
NINA  alone.} 

NINA.  Ever  thus  alone,  mourning  for 
him  who  loves  me  not ;  was  ever  heart  so 
sad  as  mine !  Oh,  Adrian,  couldst  thou 
but  return  even  for  one  short  hour  to  thy 
poor  Nina.  \_Enter  ADRIAN,  disguised.]  Ha, 
who  art  thou  that  dares  to  enter  here  in 
such  mysterious  guise  ?  Thine  errand, 
quickly,  —  speak. 

ADRIAN.  Forgive  me,  lady,  if  I  cause 
thee  fear ;  I  would  have  thee  know  me  as  a 
friend,  one  who  will  watch  above  thee,  and 
seek  to  spare  thee  every  sorrow.  Dear 
lady,  think  me  not  too  bold,  for  I  have 
known  thee  long  and  have  a  right  to  all 
thy  confidence.  Thy  husband  was  my 
nearest  friend ;  and,  when  he  left  thee 
friendless  and  alone,  I  vowed  to  guard  and 


294  THE   UNLOVED    WIFE; 

save  thee  in  all  peril.  Wilt  thou  trust 
me  ?  See,  I  bear  his  ring,  —  thou  knowest 
it? 

NINA.  Tis  indeed  his  ring.  Whence 
came  it  ?  Ah,  hast  thou  seen  him  ?  Tell 
.ne,  and  I  will  give  thee  all  my  confidence 
and  thanks  [takes  the  ring  and  gazes  beseech- 
ingly upon  ADRIAN,  who  turns  aside"]. 

ADRIAN.  He  is  well,  lady,  and  happy  as 
one  can  be  who  bears  a  cold,  proud  heart 
within  his  breast.  He  has  cast  away  an 
angel  who  could  have  cheered  and  blessed 
his  life,  and  sought  to  find  in  gold  the  hap- 
piness thy  love  alone  could  bring.  He  has 
suffered,  as  he  well  deserves  to  do.  Spend 
not  thy  pity  upon  him. 

NINA  [proudly].  And  who  art  thou  to 
speak  thus  of  him  ?  Thou  canst  not  judge 
till  thou  also  hast  been  tried  and  like  him 
deceived.  He  sought  for  wealth  to  bring 
him  fame  and  honor ;  and  when  he  found 
it  not,  what  wonder  that  he  cast  aside  the 
love  that  could  not  bring  him  happiness. 
Thou  art  no  true  friend  to  speak  thus  of 


OR,    WOMAN'S  FAITH.  295 

one  so  worthy  to  be  loved.  And  think  not 
I  reproach  him  for  my  lonely  lot.  Ah,  no, 
I  still  love  on ;  and  if  he  wins  the  wealth  he 
covets  I  can  give  my  heart's  best  blessing, 
and  so  pass  away  that  he  shall  never  know 
whose  hand  hath  crushed  the  flower  that 
would  have  clung  about  his  life  and  shed 
its  perfume  there  [turns  away  weeping]. 

ADRIAN  [aside].  She  loves  me  still.  I'll 
try  her  further  [aloud].  Lady,  idle  tongues 
have  whispered  that  when  thy  lord  deserted 
thee  thou  didst  find  a  solace  for  thy  grief 
in  a  new  lover's  smiles.  Perchance  yon 
picture  may  be  some  gay  lord  who  hath 
cheered  thy  solitude  and  won  thy  heart. 
I  fain  would  ask  thee. 

NINA.  Sir  stranger,  little  dost  thou 
know  a  woman's  heart.  I  have  found 
a  comfort  for  my  lonely  hours  in  weeping 
o'er  the  face  whose  smiles  could  brighten 
life  for  me,  or  dim  it  by  disdain  and  cold- 
ness. The  face  is  there;  my  first,  last, 
only  love  is  given  to  him  who  thinks  it 
worthless  and  hath  cast  it  by. 


296  THE    UNLOVED    WIFE; 

ADRIAN  [taking  the  picture].  'Tis  the 
Count,  thy  husband.  Lady,  he  is  unworthy 
such  true  love ;  leave  him  to  his  fate,  and 
let  not  thy  life  be  darkened  by  his  cruelty 
and  hate. 

NINA.  Thou  canst  not  tempt  me  to 
forget.  No  other  love  can  win  me  from 
the  only  one  who  hath  a  place  within  my 
heart.  Let  me  cherish  all  the  memories  of 
him,  and  till  life  shall  cease  be  true  unto 
my  husband.  Now  leave  me,  unknown 
friend  ;  I  trust  thee  for  his  sake,  and  will 
accept  thy  friendship  and  protection.  I 
offer  thee  my  gratitude  and  thanks  for  thy 
kind  service,  and  will  gladly  seek  how  best 
I  may  repay  it. 

ADRIAN.  Thanks,  lady.  Thou  shalt  find 
me  true  and  faithful,  and  my  best  reward 
will  be  the  joy  I  labor  to  restore  to  thee 
\Jcneels  and  Jcisses  her  hand~\ . 

NINA.     Farewell,  again  I  thank  thee. 

[Exit  NINA. 

ADRIAN.  So  young,  so  lovely,  so  for- 
saken, who  would  not  pity  and  protect.  I 


OR,    WOMAN'S  FAITH.  297 

will  guard  her  well,  and  ere  long  claim  the 
treasure  I  so  madly  cast  away  ere  I  had 
learned  its  priceless  value.  Nina,  thou 
shalt  yet  be  happy  on  the  bosom  of  thy 
erring  and  repentant  husband. 

[Exit  ADRIAN. 

CURTAIN. 


298  THE   UNLOVED   WIFE} 


SCENE  FIFTH. 

[Hall  in  the  palace  of  NlNA. 
Enter  NINA  and  DON  FELIX.] 

NINA.  I  tell  thee,  my  lord,  I  will  not 
listen,  naught  thou  canst  say  will  change 
my  firm  resolve.  I  cannot  wed  thee. 

DON  FELIX.  Nay,  then  listen.  Thy 
cruel  husband  left  thee  and  for  one  long 
year  thou  hast  sorrowed  in  thy  lonely 
home,  and  would  not  be  comforted.  He 
hath  returned. 

NINA.     Ah  —  [Rushes  forward.  ] 

DON  FELIX.  Thou  may'st  well  start, 
but  think  not  he  will  come  to  thee,  chains 
hold  him  fast  and  —  mark  ye  —  't  was  1 
who  bound  those  chains. 

NINA.  Do  I  dream,  my  husband  here 
and  in  captivity ;  nay,  I  believe  thee  not. 
'T  is  a  false  tale  to  anger  me.  I  heed  thee 
not  [turns  away  haughtily]. 


OR,    WOMAN'S  FAITH.  299 

DON  FELIX.  Thou  wilt  heed  me  ere  I 
am  done.  What  thinkest  thou  of  this  thy 
husband's  dagger?  See,  here  his  name. 
'T  was  taken  from  his  hands  ere  the  cold 
chains  bound  them.  Ah,  thou  dost  believe 
me  now  ! 

NINA.  Oh,  tell  on,  I  mil  listen  now. 
Why  hast  thou  done  this  cruel  deed  ?  Why 
make  this  his  welcome  home  ?  Thou  hast 
fettered  and  imprisoned  him  and  now  art 
here  to  tell  me  of  it  ?  Ah,  dost  thou  hate 
him  ?  Then  give  all  thy  hate  to  me ;  but 
oh,  I  pray  thee,  comfort  him. 

DON  FELIX.  When  thou  didst  reject  my 
suit,  I  told  thee  I  would  be  revenged ;  I  said 
a  day  would  come  when  thou,  so  cold  and 
haughty  then,  would  kneel  to  me  implor- 
ing mercy  and  I  would  deny  thee.  That 
time  hath  come,  and  I  am  deaf  to  all  thy 
prayers. 

NINA.  For  his  sake  will  I  kneel  to  thee 
beseeching  liberty  for  kirn.  I  had  no  love 
to  give  thee.  Ah,  pardon  if  I  spake  with 
scorn,  and  pity  me.  What  can  I  do  to 


300  THE   UNLOVED   WIFE, 

win  thee  back  to  mercy  ?  Ah,  listen  and 
be  generous. 

DON  FELIX.  'T  is  now  too  late.  He  is 
in  my  power ;  and  a  dagger  can  soon  rid 
thee  of  a  cruel  husband,  me  of  a  hated  rival. 

NINA.  God  have  pity  on  me  now.  Don 
Felix,  let  me  plead  once  more.  Set  Adrian 
free,  and  I  will  take  his  place  in  yon  dark 
cell  and  welcome  there  the  dagger  that 
shall  set  me  free. 

DON  FELIX.  And  wilt  thou  wear  the 
chains?  Wilt  enter  that  lone  cell  and 
perish  there  ?  Canst  thou  do  this  ? 

NINA.  Ay,  gladly  will  I  suffer  pain,  cap- 
tivity, and  death,  for  thee,  Adrian,  for  thee. 

DON  FELIX.  Then  woman's  love  is 
stronger  than  man's  hate,  and  I  envy  him 
you  would  die  for,  Nina. 

NINA.  Ah,  love  alone  can  make  home 
blest,  and  here  it  dwells  not.  I  can  free 
him  from  his  fetters  and  his  hated  wife. 
Tell  him  I  loved  him  to  the  last,  and 
blessed  him  ere  I  died.  Lead  on,  my  lord, 
I  am  ready. 


OR,    WOMAN'S  FAITH.  301 

DON  FELIX  [aside].  I  thought  I  had 
steeled  my  heart  with  hatred  and  revenge ; 
but  oh,  they  pass  away  before  such  holy 
love  as  this.  Would  I  could  win  her  to 
myself,  for  she  would  lead  me  on  to  virtue 
and  to  happiness.  Yet  one  more  trial  and 
she  may  be  mine  at  last. 

[  Tableaux. 

CURTAIN. 


302  THE   UNLOVED   WIFE, 


SCENE  SIXTH. 

[Street  near  ADRIAN'S  palace. 
Enter  ADRIAN.] 

ADRIAN.  'T  is  all  discovered,  my  myste- 
rious captivity  and  my  release.  Don  Felix, 
whom  I  trusted,  wove  the  dark  plot  and 
sought  by  false  words  to  win  Nina  from 
me.  He  has  dared  to  love  her;  and  he  shall 
dearly  pay  for  his  presumption.  He  knows 
not  that  I  watched  above  her  in  disguise ; 
and  now  while  I  was  in  captivity  he  hath 
taken  her  from  her  home.  Let  him  beware. 
If  aught  of  harm  hath  come  to  her,  woe 
betide  him  who  hath  caused  one  tear  to 
fall,  or  one  sad  fear  to  trouble  her.  I  must 
seek  and  save  her.  No  peril  will  be  too 
great  to  win  her  back  to  this  heart  that 
longs  so  fondly  for  her  now. 

[Exit  ADRIAN. 

CUBTAIN. 


OR,   WOMAN'S  FAITH.  303 


SCENE   SEVENTH. 

[A  cell  in  the  palace  of  DON  FELIX. 
NINA  chained. ,] 

NINA.  Tis  strange;  here  in  this  dark 
cell,  tho'  fettered  and  alone,  I  feel  a  deeper 
joy  than  when  a  proud  and  envied  bride 
I  dwelt  in  my  deserted  home.  For  here 
his  foot  hath  trod ;  these  walls  have  echoed 
to  the  voice  I  love ;  these  chains  so  cold 
and  heavy  1  more  gladly  wear  than  e'en 
the  costly  gems  once  clasped  upon  these 
arms,  for  they  were  his.  Here  his  sad 
tears  fell  perchance  for  his  captivity ;  but  I 
can  smile  and  bless  the  hour  when  I  could 
win  thy  freedom,  Adrian,  with  my  poor 
liberty.  Hark  —  they  come.  Is  it  to  claim 
the  vow  I  made  to  yield  my  bosom  to  the 
dagger  meant  for  his  ?  I  am  ready. 
\Ewter  DON  FELIX.]  Alone,  my  lord ;  me- 
thought  it  were  too  sad  a  task  for  thee  to 


304  THE   UNLOVED   WIFE; 

take  my  life.  Well,  be  it  so;  you  claim 
my  vow.  I  can  die  still  blessing  thee,  my 
Adrian  [kneels  before  DON  FELIX]. 

DON  FELIX.  Rise,  Nina ;  ah,  kneel  not 
to  me,  nor  think  this  hand  could  take  the 
life  it  prizes  more  than  happiness  or  honor. 
1  came  not  here  to  harm  thee ;  Heaven 
forbid  !  I  came  once  more  to  offer  thee 
rny  heart,  my  home,  and  all  the  boundless 
love  you  have  so  scorned.  Thy  husband 
hath  deserted  thee  ;  no  ties  too  fast  to  sever 
bind  thee  to  him.  Thou  art  alone,  a  cap- 
tive, and  I  alone  can  free  thee.  Think  of 
the  love  I  bear  thee,  Nina,  and  be  mine 
[takes  her  hand]. 

NINA.  Where  is  thy  boasted  honor 
now?  Where  the  solemn  vow  thou  didst 
make  me  that  my  lonely  cell  should  be  as 
sacred  to  thee  as  my  palace  halls?  Where 
is  thy  pity  for  the  helpless  wife  of  him 
whom  thou  didst  call  thy  friend  ?  I  never 
loved  thee,  now  I  scorn  thee.  A  true  and 
pure  affection  never  binds  such  chains  as 
these,  nor  causes  bitter  tears  like  mine  to 


OR,    WOMAN'S  FAITH.  805 

flow.  Rather  suffer  death  than  cherish  in 
my  heart  one  tender  thought  of  thee. 
Thou  hast  my  answer,  now  leave  me. 

DON  FELIX.  Not  yet,  proud  captive.  I 
have  sought  to  win  thee  gently ;  but  now, 
beware.  Think  not  to  escape  me,  thou 
shalt  feel  how  deep  a  vengeance  I  can 
bring  on  thee  and  him  thou  lovest.  Thou 
shalt  suffer  all  the  sorrow  I  can  inflict,  — 
shalt  know  thy  proud  lord  forsaken  and  in 
danger  when  a  word  from  rne  can  save, 
and  that  word  I  will  not  speak.  All  the 
grief  and  pain  and  hatred  that  my  jealous 
heart -can  give  will  I  heap  upon  his  head, 
and  thus  through  him  I  will  revenge  my- 
self on  thee. 

NINA.  Thou  canst  not  harm  him,  he  is 
safe  and  free.  Do  thy  worst,  I  care  not 
what  fate  thou  hast  for  me,  a  fearless  hand 
soon  finds  a  way  to  free  a  soul  from  sorrow 
and  captivity.  This  heart  thou  canst  not 
reach.  It  fears  thee  not. 

DON  FELIX.  Can  I  not  make  thee 
tremble,  haughty  woman?  I  love  thee  still, 
20 


306  THE   UNLOVED    WIFE, 

and  I  will  win  thee.  I  go  to  work  thee  sor- 
row ;  and  when  next  we  meet  I  will  bring 
thee  token  of  thy  husband's  death  or,  what 
may  touch  thee  nearer,  his  hate  of  thee. 

[Exit  DON  FELIX. 

NINA.  'T  is  a  dark  and  fearful  dream,  — 
Adrian  in  danger,  and  I  cannot  save  him. 
Oh,  that  I  were  free  again,  naught  should 
stay  me ;  and  I  would  win  him  back  by  the 
power  of  woman's  love  and  faith.  Lord 
Felix  will  return,  he  hath  vowed  revenge  ; 
where  then  can  I  look  for  a  true  heart  to 
comfort  and  protect  me  [sinks  down  in 
despair] . 

[Enter  ADRIAN,  still  in  disguise. 

ADRIAN.     Here  is  a  friend  to  aid  thee. 

NINA  [starting  up].  Who  —  who  art  thou  ? 

ADRIAN.  Thy  guardian.  Lady,  thou 
hast  said  thou  wouldst  trust  me,  and  I  am 
here  to  save. 

NINA.  Forgive  me  that  I  doubt  thee; 
yet  I  do  fear  to  trust,  for  I  am  well-nigh 
crazed  with  sorrow.  Art  thou  my  hus- 
band's friend? 


OR,    WOMAN'S  FAITH.  307 

ADRIAN.  I  am  true  as  Heaven  to  thee, 
poor  lady.  I  have  watched  above  thee  and 
can  save.^  Here,  here  is  the  ring  thou 
knowest ;  ah,  do  not  doubt  me. 

NINA.  I  know  thee  now  and  put  all  my 
faith  in  thee.  Take  me  hence.  Ah,  save 
me  !  Lead  me  to  my  home,  and  the  thanks 
of  a  broken  heart  are  thine.  Lead  on,  kind 
friend,  I  will  follow  thee. 

ADRIAN  [aside].  Oh,  this  is  a  bitter  pun- 
ishment for  me.  It  breaks  my  heart. 
[^Ited]  This  way,  dear  lady,  a  secret  door 
doth  let  us  forth ;  step  thou  lightly.  Thus 
let  me  shroud  thee. 

[He  wraps  NINA  in  a  dark  robe,  and  they  disap- 
pear thro9  the  secret  door. 

CURTAIN. 


308  THE   UNLOVED   WIFE; 


SCENE  EIGHTH, 

[NiNA's  chamber. 
Enter  NINA  and  HAGAB.] 

NINA.  Welcome  to  thee,  Hagar ;  sit  thee 
down  and  tell  me  why  hast  thou  come  to 
seek  me  in  my  lonely  home  ? 

HAGAR.  Sweet  lady,  fear  not ;  no  evil 
tidings  do  I  bring,  but  a  wondrous  tale  of 
happiness  in  store  for  thee.  When  thy 
father  died,  few  doubted  but  his  wealth 
would  come  to  thee  ;  and  it  would,  indeed, 
have  all  been  thine  had  not  that  false  Don 
Felix  stolen  the  will  away.  He  took  the 
paper  that  left  all  to  thee,  and  thus  he  won 
the  orphan's  gold.  But  three  short  days 
ago,  a  dreadful  crime  which  he  had  done 
was  brought  to  light,  and  he  hath  fled.  He 
told  me  all  and  bid  me  give  thee  this, 
thy  father's  will.  [HAGAR  gives  paper  to 


OR,    WOMAN'S  FAITH.  809 

NINA.  'T  is  strange,  most  strange.  But 
tell  me,  Hagar,  how  didst  thou  come  to 
know  that  evil  man? 

HAGAR.  I  knew  him  when  he  came 
from  Italy  with  thee  and  thy  father  years 
ago.  And  as  I  watched  thy  path  through 
life  so  I  watched  his,  and  thus  he  learned 
to  trust  me.  'T  is  thus  I  gained  for  thee 
that  wealth  so  long  withheld ;  and  now  my 
work  is  done.  Thou  wilt  win  thy  hus- 
band's love,  and  so  be  happy.  God  bless 
thee,  gentle  lady,  and  farewell. 

NINA.  Ah,  stay  and  tell  me  how  can  I 
best  show  the  gratitude  I  deeply  feel. 
Thou  hast  brought  me  wealth  and  happi- 
ness, how  can  I  repay  thee  ? 

HAGAR.  I  ask  no  other  joy  than  that 
I  see  in  thy  fair  face.  I  go  now  to  my 
own  dear  land,  and  we  shall  not  meet 
again ;  but  old  Hagar  will  remember  thee, 
and  pray  that  life  may  be  one  long,  bright 
dream  of  love  with  the  husband  thou  hast 
won.  Farewell. 

[Exit  HAGAR. 


310  THE   UNLOVED   WIFE, 

NINA.  The  clouds  have  passed  away  and 
I  am  happy  now;  and  the  wealth  he  longed 
for  it  is  mine  to  give.  Oh,  Adrian,  corne 
back  to  her  thou  hast  cast  aside.  [An 
arrow  bearing  a  letter  is  thrown  in  at  the  mn- 
dow  and  falls  at  her  feet.']  What  means  this 
letter?  Stay,  let  me  see  what  it  may 
tell  me.  'T  is  from  Adrian.  Ah,  does  an 
angel  watch  above  me  that  such  joy  is 
mine  ?  [Opens  the  letter  and  reads.'] 

Think  not  to  win  me  back  with  thy  new 
wealth  ;  I  cannot  love  thee.  Be  happy  with  thy 
gold  ;  it  cannot  buy  the  heart  of  the  unhappy 

ADRIAN, 

NINA.  This  from  him !  No,  no,  it  can- 
not be ;  he  would  not  speak  such  words  to 
me  ;  his  wife.  Yet,  'tis  his  hand  —  I  must 
believe  —  and  a  deeper  darkness  gathers 
round  me.  No  joy,  no  hope,  is  left  to  bind 
me  unto  life.  If  I  were  gone  he  might  be 
happy  with  another.  I  can  never  win  his 
love,  then  why  live  on  to  dim  his  pathway. 
I  will  leave  my  gold  to  him,  for  it  is 


OR,    WOMAN'S  FAITH.  311 

worthless  now ;  and  when,  with  her  he  loves 
in  some  fair  home,  he  sends  perchance  one 
thought  of  her  who  died  to  free  him,  I  shall 
be  repaid  for  this  last  sacrifice.  Ah,  Hagar, 
little  didst  thou  think  the  joy  foretold 
would  end  so  soon,  and  this  thy  gift  would 
win  for  me  the  rest  I  long  for  now  \takes 
from  her  bosom  the  phial  and  drinks].  It  will 
soon  be  past.  Now,  till  sleep  steals  o'er 
me,  1  will  send  one  last  word,  Adrian,  to 
thee.  [She  writes,  then  sinks  upon  a  couch.'} 
My  heart  grows  faint,  and  my  eyes  are 
heavy  with  the  last  slumber  they  shall  ever 
know.  The  poison  does  its  work  too  soon ; 
but  I  am  done  with  life,  and  the  soft,  sweet 
sleep  of  death  is  holding  me.  Oh,  my  hus- 
band, may  this  last  deed  of  mine  give  thee 
all  the  joy  it  could  not  bring  to  her  who 
could  only  die  for  thee.  Farewell  life,  fare- 
well love ;  my  latest  prayer  is  for  thee, 
Adrian.  [She  lies  down  and  falls  gently  asleep.'] 

CURTAIN. 


312  THE    UNLOVED    WIFE; 


SCENE  NINTH. 

[Terrace  in  NINA'S  garden. 
Enter  ADRIAN  with  letter.] 

ADRIAN.  What  means  this  letter  from 
her  hand  ?  'T  was  given  me  by  her  servant 
while  she  slept.  Does  she  call  me' home 
again  ?  Ah,  little  can  she  know  how 
fondly  now  her  cold,  proud  husband  longs 
to  fold  her  in  his  arms  and  bless  the  hour 
when  he  lost  wealth  and  won  her  noble 
love.  [  Opens  the  letter  and  readsJ] 

I  send  thee  back  the  cruel  words  that  have 
banished  all  the  hopes  of  happiness  with  thee. 
I  cannot  win  thy  heart ;  and  this  sad  truth  hath 
broken  mine.  And  now,  upon  my  dying  bed,  I 
leave  thee  all  the  wealth  that  could  not  win  one 
tender  smile  for  her  who  pined  for  it  in  vain. 
Thou  hast  scorned  my  love,  take  thou  the  gold 
which  is  worthless  to  me  now.  Farewell,  my 
husband ;  I  am  faithful  to  the  last,  and  my  lips 
blessed  thee  ere  they  drank  the  draught  that  soon 


OR,    WOMAN'S  FAITH.  318 

will  free  me  from  my  sorrow,  and  thee  from  thy 
unloved  but  loving  NINA. 

ADRIAN.  My  cruel  words  ?  What  means 
this  ?  Stay,  there  is  another  paper,  and  it 
may  tell  me  more.  [Beads  FELIX'S  forged 
letter  and  dashes  it  down."]  'Tis  false,  false 
as  the  villain's  heart  who  forged  the  lie  and 
brought  agony  like  this  to  that  pure,  loving 
heart.  Oh,  Nina,  Nina,  now  when  I  so 
fondly  love  thee,  thou  hast  been  deceived, 
and  died  still  blessing  him  thou  deemed  so 
cruel  and  so  cold.  Oh,  that  I  could  but  win 
thee  back  for  one  short  hour,  that  I  might 
tell  my  penitence  and  my  deep  sorrow  for 
the  grief  I  have  brought  thee.  Yet,  blessed 
thought,  it  may  not  be  too  late.  She  slept 
but  one  short  hour  ago,  when  this  was 
taken  from  her  hand.  She  may  yet  linger 
at  the  gates  of  death,  and  I  may  call  her 
back  to  happiness  and  life  once  more.  Oh, 
if  I  may  but  win  this  blessing  to  my  heart, 
my  life  shall  be  one  prayer  of  thankfulness 
for  the  great  boon  [rushes  ouf]. 

CURTAIN. 


314  THE   UNLOVED   WIFE 


SCENE  TENTH. 

[NlNA's  chamber. 

NlNA  lies  in  a  deep  trance  upon  her  couch. 
ADRIAN  ruthes  in.] 

ADRIAN.  Nina !  Nina !  wake,  love,  it  is 
I  thy  husband  who  doth  call  thee.  Oh, 
can  I  not  win  thee  back  to  life  now  when  I 
have  learned  to  love  with  all  my  heart's 
faith  and  fondness.  [He  kisses  her  hands 
and  weeps.~]  Calm  and  still  she  lies,  all  my 
tender  words  cannot  awake  her,  and  these 
bitter  tears  but  fall  unheeded  and  in  vain. 
Was  it  for  this  I  won  that  warm  young 
heart,  —  for  this  short  sorrowing  life,  this 
lonely  death?  Ah,  couldst  thou  see  this 
proud  heart  humbled  now,  and  these  re- 
pentant tears  that  wet  thy  quiet  brow. 
Nina,  wife,  oh,  wake  and  tell  me  I  am 
forgiven !  [Kneels  beside  her."] 

NINA  [rousing].    Adrian! 


OR,    WOMAN'S  FAITH.  815 

ADRIAN  [starting  up] .  She  breathes,  she 
lives,  my  prayer  is  heard.  Tis  not  too 
late. 

NINA  [still  dreaming'].  Me  thought  I  was 
in  heaven,  for  Adrian  bent  o'er  me;  the 
face  I  loved  smiled  lovingly  upon  me, 
sweet  tender  words  were  spoken,  and  the 
joy  of  that  short  moment  well  repaid  the 
sorrow  I  had  borne  ere  that  last  sleep 
came.  I  am  happy  now  for  Adrian  hath 
said  he  loves  me. 

ADRIAN.  Thy  deathlike  sleep  still  hangs 
about  thee,  thou  art  still  on  earth,  and  I  am 
here  to  bring  thee  joy.  Ah,  waken  and 
learn  thy  dream  is  true.  Thy  husband 
loves  thee. 

NINA.  So  the  sweet  vision  said,  but  it 
hath  passed,  and  this  will  vanish  too.  Ah, 
why  hast  thou  called  me  back  ?  Life  is  but 
a  chain  that  binds  me  unto  sorrow,  then 
let  me  sleep  again  and  dream  that  Adrian 
is  true. 

ADRIAN.  Nina!  Nina!  rouse  thyself,  it 
is  no  dream ;  he  hath  bent  above  thee  weep- 


816  THE   UNLOVED   WIFE] 

ing  bitter  tears  and  pouring  forth  his  whole 
heart's  love,  remorse,  and  sorrow.  His 
voice  hath  called  thee  back  to  life,  and  he 
is  here.  [NiNA  rises  and  looks  mldly  about 
her.']  Here,  love,  at  thy  feet  seeking  thy 
pardon  for  the  deep  wrong  he  hath  done 
thee,  praying  thy  forgiveness!  [Throws  him- 
self at  her  feet.  NINA  stretches  forth  her  arms, 
and  they  embrace  with  tears  of  joy.] 

NINA.  Adrian,  husband,  I  have  naught 
to  pardon.  Thou  hast  won  me  from  the 
sleep  of  death,  I  am  thine,  thy  heart  is  my 
home,  and  I  am  only  happy  there. 

ADRIAN.  I  am  unworthy  such  great 
happiness.  Oh,  Nina,  thou  art  the  true 
angel  of  my  life  ;  and  thou  hast  led  me  on 
to  win  a  deeper  joy  than  all  the  wealth  of 
earth  could  give.  I  cast  thy  pure  affection 
by,  and  sought  in  selfish  sorrow  to  forget 
thee  ;  but  I  could  not.  Thy  dear  face  shone 
in  all  my  dreams,  and  thy  voice  still  lin- 
gered in  mine  ear,  imploring  me  to  love 
thee.  Then  I  returned  to  find  thee  droop- 
ing like  a  blighted  flower.  All  loved  and 


OR,    WOMAN'S  FAITH.  317 

honored  thee ;  and  I  vowed  to  watch,  and,  if 
I  found  thee  true  and  loving  still,  to  tell 
thee  all,  and  give  my  heart  to  thee  forever. 
I  have  now  won  thee,  and  I  love  thee, 
dearest. 

NINA.  Oh,  I  am  too  hlest!  Life  is  a 
flower-strewn  path  henceforth,  where  I  will 
gladly  journey  if  thou  wilt  be  my  guide; 
and  here  upon  thy  breast,  dear  love,  now 
smiles  the  happy  wife,  —  no  longer  the 
lonely  and  unloved  one. 

[Tableau. 

CURTAIN. 


fsiot? 


HXo 


